NIGHT AND MORNING

By Edward Bulwer Lytton

PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1845. 

Much has been written by critics, especially by those in Germany (thenative land of criticism), upon the important question, whether toplease or to instruct should be the end of Fiction--whether a moralpurpose is or is not in harmony with the undidactic spirit perceptiblein the higher works of the imagination. And the general result of thediscussion has been in favour of those who have contended that MoralDesign, rigidly so called, should be excluded from the aims of the Poet;that his Art should regard only the Beautiful, and be contented withthe indirect moral tendencies, which can never fail the creation of theBeautiful. Certainly, in fiction, to interest, to please, and sportivelyto elevate--to take man from the low passions, and the miserabletroubles of life, into a higher region, to beguile weary and selfishpain, to excite a genuine sorrow at vicissitudes not his own, to raisethe passions into sympathy with heroic struggles--and to admit the soulinto that serener atmosphere from which it rarely returns to ordinaryexistence, without some memory or association which ought to enlarge thedomain of thought and exalt the motives of action;--such, withoutother moral result or object, may satisfy the Poet, * and constitute thehighest and most universal morality he can effect. But subordinate tothis, which is not the duty, but the necessity, of all Fiction thatoutlasts the hour, the writer of imagination may well permit to himselfother purposes and objects, taking care that they be not too sharplydefined, and too obviously meant to contract the Poet into theLecturer--the Fiction into the Homily. The delight in Shylock is notless vivid for the Humanity it latently but profoundly inculcates; thehealthful merriment of the Tartufe is not less enjoyed for the exposureof the Hypocrisy it denounces. We need not demand from Shakespeare orfrom Moliere other morality than that which Genius unconsciously throwsaround it--the natural light which it reflects; but if some greatprinciple which guides us practically in the daily intercourse with menbecomes in the general lustre more clear and more pronounced, we gaindoubly, by the general tendency and the particular result. 

 *[I use the word Poet in its proper sense, as applicable to any writer, whether in verse or prose, who invents or creates. ]

Long since, in searching for new regions in the Art to which I am aservant, it seemed to me that they might be found lying far, and rarelytrodden, beyond that range of conventional morality in which Novelistafter Novelist had entrenched himself--amongst those subtle recesses inthe ethics of human life in which Truth and Falsehood dwell undisturbedand unseparated. The vast and dark Poetry around us--the Poetry ofModern Civilisation and Daily Existence, is shut out from us in much, by the shadowy giants of Prejudice and Fear. He who would arrive at theFairy Land must face the Phantoms. Betimes, I set myself to the task ofinvestigating the motley world to which our progress in humanity--hasattained, caring little what misrepresentation I incurred, whathostility I provoked, in searching through a devious labyrinth for thefoot-tracks of Truth. 

In the pursuit of this object, I am, not vainly, conscious that I havehad my influence on my time--that I have contributed, though humblyand indirectly, to the benefits which Public Opinion has extorted fromGovernments and Laws. While (to content myself with a single example)the ignorant or malicious were decrying the moral of Paul Clifford, Iconsoled myself with perceiving that its truths had stricken deep--thatmany, whom formal essays might not reach, were enlisted by the pictureand the popular force of Fiction into the service of that large andCatholic Humanity which frankly examines into the causes of crime, whichameliorates the ills of society by seeking to amend the circumstancesby which they are occasioned; and commences the great work of justiceto mankind by proportioning the punishment to the offence. That work, I know, had its share in the wise and great relaxation of our CriminalCode--it has had its share in results yet more valuable, because leadingto more comprehensive reforms-viz. , in the courageous facing of the illswhich the mock decorum of timidity would shun to contemplate, but which, till fairly fronted, in the spirit of practical Christianity, sap daily, more and more, the walls in which blind Indolence would protect itselffrom restless Misery and rampant Hunger. For it is not till Art has toldthe unthinking that nothing (rightly treated) is too low for its breathto vivify and its wings to raise, that the Herd awaken from theirchronic lethargy of contempt, and the Lawgiver is compelled to redresswhat the Poet has lifted into esteem. In thus enlarging the boundariesof the Novelist, from trite and conventional to untrodden ends, I haveseen, not with the jealousy of an author, but with the pride of anOriginator, that I have served as a guide to later and abler writers, both in England and abroad. If at times, while imitating, they havemistaken me, I am not. Answerable for their errors; or if, more often, they have improved where they borrowed, I am not envious of theirlaurels. They owe me at least this, that I prepared the way fortheir reception, and that they would have been less popular and moremisrepresented, if the outcry which bursts upon the first researchesinto new directions had not exhausted its noisy vehemence upon me. 

In this Novel of Night and Morning I have had various ends inview--subordinate, I grant, to the higher and more durable moralitywhich belongs to the Ideal, and instructs us playfully while itinterests, in the passions, and through the heart. First--to dealfearlessly with that universal unsoundness in social justice which makesdistinctions so marked and iniquitous between Vice and Crime--viz. , between the corrupting habits and the violent act--which scarce touchesthe former with the lightest twig in the fasces--which lifts againstthe latter the edge of the Lictor's axe. Let a child steal an apple insport, let a starveling steal a roll in despair, and Law conducts themto the Prison, for evil commune to mellow them for the gibbet. But leta man spend one apprenticeship from youth to old age in vice--let himdevote a fortune, perhaps colossal, to the wholesale demoralisation ofhis kind--and he may be surrounded with the adulation of the so-calledvirtuous, and be served upon its knee, by that Lackey--the Modern World!I say not that Law can, or that Law should, reach the Vice as it doesthe Crime; but I say, that Opinion may be more than the servile shadowof Law. I impress not here, as in Paul Clifford, a material moral towork its effect on the Journals, at the Hastings, through Constituents, and on Legislation;--I direct myself to a channel less active, moretardy, but as sure--to the Conscience--that reigns elder and superior toall Law, in men's hearts and souls;--I utter boldly and loudly a truth, if not all untold, murmured feebly and falteringly before, sooner orlater it will find its way into the judgment and the conduct, and shapeout a tribunal which requires not robe or ermine. 

Secondly--In this work I have sought to lift the mask from the timidselfishness which too often with us bears the name of Respectability. Purposely avoiding all attraction that may savour of extravagance, patiently subduing every tone and every hue to the aspect of those whomwe meet daily in our thoroughfares, I have shown in Robert Beaufortthe man of decorous phrase and bloodless action--the systematicself-server--in whom the world forgive the lack of all that is generous, warm, and noble, in order to respect the passive acquiescence inmethodical conventions and hollow forms. And how common such men arewith us in this century, and how inviting and how necessary theirdelineation, may be seen in this, --that the popular and pre-eminentObserver of the age in which we live has since placed their prototype invigorous colours upon imperishable canvas. --[Need I say that I allude tothe Pecksniff of Mr. Dickens?]

There is yet another object with which I have identified my tale. Itrust that I am not insensible to such advantages as arise fromthe diffusion of education really sound, and knowledge reallyavailable;--for these, as the right of my countrymen, I have contendedalways. But of late years there has been danger that what ought to be animportant truth may be perverted into a pestilent fallacy. Whether forrich or for poor, disappointment must ever await the endeavour to giveknowledge without labour, and experience without trial. Cheap literatureand popular treatises do not in themselves suffice to fit the nervesof man for the strife below, and lift his aspirations, in healthfulconfidence above. He who seeks to divorce toil from knowledge deprivesknowledge of its most valuable property. --the strengthening of themind by exercise. We learn what really braces and elevates us only inproportion to the effort it costs us. Nor is it in Books alone, nor inBooks chiefly, that we are made conscious of our strength as Men; Lifeis the great Schoolmaster, Experience the mighty Volume. He who has madeone stern sacrifice of self has acquired more than he will ever gleanfrom the odds and ends of popular philosophy. And the man the leastscholastic may be more robust in the power that is knowledge, andapproach nearer to the Arch-Seraphim, than Bacon himself, if he clingfast to two simple maxims--"Be honest in temptation, and in Adversitybelieve in God. " Such moral, attempted before in Eugene Aram, I haveenforced more directly here; and out of such convictions I havecreated hero and heroine, placing them in their primitive and naturalcharacters, with aid more from life than books, --from courage the one, from affection the other--amidst the feeble Hermaphrodites of our sicklycivilisation;--examples of resolute Manhood and tender Womanhood. 

The opinions I have here put forth are not in fashion at this day. But Ihave never consulted the popular any more than the sectarian, Prejudice. Alone and unaided I have hewn out my way, from first to last, by theforce of my own convictions. The corn springs up in the field centuriesafter the first sower is forgotten. Works may perish with the workman;but, if truthful, their results are in the works of others, imitating, borrowing, enlarging, and improving, in the everlasting Cycle ofIndustry and Thought. 

Knebworth, 1845. NOTE TO THE PRESENT EDITION, 1851. 

I have nothing to add to the preceding pages, written six years ago, asto the objects and aims of this work; except to say, and by no meansas a boast, that the work lays claims to one kind of interest whichI certainly never desired to effect for it--viz. , in exemplifying theglorious uncertainty of the Law. For, humbly aware of the blunders whichNovelists not belonging to the legal profession are apt to commit, whenthey summon to the denouement of a plot the aid of a deity so mysteriousas Themis, I submitted to an eminent lawyer the whole case of "Beaufortversus Beaufort, " as it stands in this Novel. And the pages which referto that suit were not only written from the opinion annexed to the briefI sent in, but submitted to the eye of my counsel, and revised byhis pen. --(N. B. He was feed. ) Judge then my dismay when I heard longafterwards that the late Mr. O'Connell disputed the soundness of thelaw I had thus bought and paid for! "Who shall decide when doctorsdisagree?" All I can say is, that I took the best opinion that loveor money could get me; and I should add, that my lawyer, unawed by thealleged ipse dixit of the great Agitator (to be sure, he is dead), stillstoutly maintains his own views of the question. 

 [I have, however, thought it prudent so far to meet the objection suggested by Mr. O'Connell, as to make a slight alteration in this edition, which will probably prevent the objection, if correct, being of any material practical effect on the disposition of that visionary El Dorado--the Beaufort Property. ]

Let me hope that the right heir will live long enough to come under theStatute of Limitations. Possession is nine points of the law, and Timemay give the tenth. 

Kenbworth. 

NIGHT AND MORNING. 

BOOK I. 

 "Noch in meines Lebens Lenze War ich and ich wandert' aus, Und der Jugend frohe Tanze Liess ich in des Vaters Haus. "

 SCHILLER, Der Pilgrim. 

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 

 "Now rests our vicar. They who knew him best, Proclaim his life to have been entirely rest; Not one so old has left this world of sin, More like the being that he entered in. "--CRABBE. 

In one of the Welsh counties is a small village called A----. It issomewhat removed from the high road, and is, therefore, but little knownto those luxurious amateurs of the picturesque, who view nature throughthe windows of a carriage and four. Nor, indeed, is there anything, whether of scenery or association, in the place itself, sufficient toallure the more sturdy enthusiast from the beaten tracks which touristsand guide-books prescribe to those who search the Sublime and Beautifulamidst the mountain homes of the ancient Britons. Still, on the whole, the village is not without its attractions. It is placed in a smallvalley, through which winds and leaps down many a rocky fall, a clear, babbling, noisy rivulet, that affords excellent sport to the brethrenof the angle. Thither, accordingly, in the summer season occasionallyresort the Waltons of the neighbourhood--young farmers, retired traders, with now and then a stray artist, or a roving student from one of theuniversities. Hence the solitary hostelry of A----, being somewhat morefrequented, is also more clean and comfortable than could reasonably beanticipated from the insignificance and remoteness of the village. 

At a time in which my narrative opens, the village boasted a sociable, agreeable, careless, half-starved parson, who never failed to introducehimself to any of the anglers who, during the summer months, passeda day or two in the little valley. The Rev. Mr. Caleb Price had beeneducated at the University of Cambridge, where he had contrived, inthree years, to run through a little fortune of L3500. It is true, that he acquired in return the art of making milkpunch, the scienceof pugilism, and the reputation of one of the best-natured, rattling, open-hearted companions whom you could desire by your side in a tandemto Newmarket, or in a row with the bargemen. By the help of these giftsand accomplishments, he had not failed to find favour, while his moneylasted, with the young aristocracy of the "Gentle Mother. " And, thoughthe very reverse of an ambitious or calculating man, he hadcertainly nourished the belief that some one of the "hats" or "tinselgowns"--i. E. , young lords or fellow-commoners, with whom he was on suchexcellent terms, and who supped with him so often, would do somethingfor him in the way of a living. But it so happened that when Mr. CalebPrice had, with a little difficulty, scrambled through his degree, andfound himself a Bachelor of Arts and at the end of his finances, hisgrand acquaintances parted from him to their various posts in the StateMilitant of Life. And, with the exception of one, joyous and recklessas himself, Mr. Caleb Price found that when Money makes itself wingsit flies away with our friends. As poor Price had earned no academicaldistinction, so he could expect no advancement from his college; nofellowship; no tutorship leading hereafter to livings, stalls, anddeaneries. Poverty began already to stare him in the face, when the onlyfriend who, having shared his prosperity, remained true to his adversefate, --a friend, fortunately for him, of high connections and brilliantprospects--succeeded in obtaining for him the humble living of A----. To this primitive spot the once jovial roisterer cheerfullyretired--contrived to live contented upon an income somewhat less thanhe had formerly given to his groom--preached very short sermons to avery scanty and ignorant congregation, some of whom only understoodWelsh--did good to the poor and sick in his own careless, slovenlyway--and, uncheered or unvexed by wife and children, he rose in summerwith the lark and in winter went to bed at nine precisely, to save coalsand candles. For the rest, he was the most skilful angler in the wholecounty; and so willing to communicate the results of his experience asto the most taking colour of the flies, and the most favoured haunts ofthe trout--that he had given especial orders at the inn, thatwhenever any strange gentleman came to fish, Mr. Caleb Price should beimmediately sent for. In this, to be sure, our worthy pastor had hisusual recompense. First, if the stranger were tolerably liberal, Mr. Price was asked to dinner at the inn; and, secondly, if this failed, from the poverty or the churlishness of the obliged party, Mr. Pricestill had an opportunity to hear the last news--to talk about theGreat World--in a word, to exchange ideas, and perhaps to get an oldnewspaper, or an odd number of a magazine. 

Now, it so happened that one afternoon in October, when the periodicalexcursions of the anglers, becoming gradually rarer and more rare, hadaltogether ceased, Mr. Caleb Price was summoned from his parlour inwhich he had been employed in the fabrication of a net for his cabbages, by a little white-headed boy, who came to say there was a gentleman atthe inn who wished immediately to see him--a strange gentleman, who hadnever been there before. 

Mr. Price threw down his net, seized his hat, and, in less than fiveminutes, he was in the best room of the little inn. 

The person there awaiting him was a man who, though plainly clad ina velveteen shooting-jacket, had an air and mien greatly above thosecommon to the pedestrian visitors of A----. He was tall, and of one ofthose athletic forms in which vigour in youth is too often followedby corpulence in age. At this period, however, in the full prime ofmanhood--the ample chest and sinewy limbs, seen to full advantage intheir simple and manly dress--could not fail to excite that popularadmiration which is always given to strength in the one sex as todelicacy in the other. The stranger was walking impatiently to and frothe small apartment when Mr. Price entered; and then, turning tothe clergyman a countenance handsome and striking, but yet moreprepossessing from its expression of frankness than from the regularityof its features, --he stopped short, held out his hand, and said, witha gay laugh, as he glanced over the parson's threadbare and slovenlycostume, "My poor Caleb!--what a metamorphosis!--I should not have knownyou again!"

"What! you! Is it possible, my dear fellow?--how glad I am to seeyou! What on earth can bring you to such a place? No! not a soul wouldbelieve me if I said I had seen you in this miserable hole. "

"That is precisely the reason why I am here. Sit down, Caleb, and we'lltalk over matters as soon as our landlord has brought up the materialsfor--"

"The milk-punch, " interrupted Mr. Price, rubbing his hands. 

"Ah, that will bring us back to old times, indeed!"

In a few minutes the punch was prepared, and after two or threepreparatory glasses, the stranger thus commenced: "My dear Caleb, I amin want of your assistance, and above all of your secrecy. "

"I promise you both beforehand. It will make me happy the rest of mylife to think I have served my patron--my benefactor--the only friend Ipossess. "

"Tush, man! don't talk of that: we shall do better for you one of thesedays. But now to the point: I have come here to be married--married, oldboy! married!"

And the stranger threw himself back in his chair, and chuckled with theglee of a schoolboy. 

"Humph!" said the parson, gravely. "It is a serious thing to do, and avery odd place to come to. "

"I admit both propositions: this punch is superb. To proceed. You knowthat my uncle's immense fortune is at his own disposal; if I disobligedhim, he would be capable of leaving all to my brother; I shoulddisoblige him irrevocably if he knew that I had married a tradesman'sdaughter; I am going to marry a tradesman's daughter--a girl in amillion! the ceremony must be as secret as possible. And in this church, with you for the priest, I do not see a chance of discovery. "

"Do you marry by license?"

"No, my intended is not of age; and we keep the secret even from herfather. In this village you will mumble over the bans without one ofyour congregation ever taking heed of the name. I shall stay here amonth for the purpose. She is in London, on a visit to a relation inthe city. The bans on her side will be published with equal privacy in alittle church near the Tower, where my name will be no less unknown thanhers. Oh, I've contrived it famously!"

"But, my dear fellow, consider what you risk. "

"I have considered all, and I find every chance in my favour. The bridewill arrive here on the day of our wedding: my servant will be onewitness; some stupid old Welshman, as antediluvian as possible--I leaveit to you to select him--shall be the other. My servant I shall disposeof, and the rest I can depend on. "

"But--"

"I detest buts; if I had to make a language, I would not admit such aword in it. And now, before I run on about Catherine, a subject quiteinexhaustible, tell me, my dear friend, something about yourself. "

 . .. .. .. 

Somewhat more than a month had elapsed since the arrival of the strangerat the village inn. He had changed his quarters for the Parsonage--wentout but little, and then chiefly on foot excursions among thesequestered hills in the neighbourhood. He was therefore but partiallyknown by sight, even in the village; and the visit of some old collegefriend to the minister, though indeed it had never chanced before, was not, in itself, so remarkable an event as to excite any particularobservation. The bans had been duly, and half audibly, hurried over, after the service was concluded, and while the scanty congregation weredispersing down the little aisle of the church, --when one morning achaise and pair arrived at the Parsonage. A servant out of livery leapedfrom the box. The stranger opened the door of the chaise, and, utteringa joyous exclamation, gave his arm to a lady, who, trembling andagitated, could scarcely, even with that stalwart support, descend thesteps. "Ah!" she said, in a voice choked with tears, when they foundthemselves alone in the little parlour, --"ah! if you knew how I havesuffered!"

How is it that certain words, and those the homeliest, which the handwrites and the eye reads as trite and commonplace expressions--whenspoken convey so much, --so many meanings complicated and refined? "Ah!if you knew how I have suffered!"

When the lover heard these words, his gay countenance fell; he drewback--his conscience smote him: in that complaint was the whole historyof a clandestine love, not for both the parties, but for the woman--thepainful secrecy--the remorseful deceit--the shame--the fear--thesacrifice. She who uttered those words was scarcely sixteen. It is anearly age to leave Childhood behind for ever!

"My own love! you have suffered, indeed; but it is over now. 

"Over! And what will they say of me--what will they think of me at home?Over! Ah!"

"It is but for a short time; in the course of nature my uncle cannotlive long: all then will be explained. Our marriage once made public, all connected with you will be proud to own you. You will have wealth, station--a name among the first in the gentry of England. But, aboveall, you will have the happiness to think that your forbearance fora time has saved me, and, it may be, our children, sweet one!--frompoverty and--"

"It is enough, " interrupted the girl; and the expression of hercountenance became serene and elevated. "It is for you--for your sake. I know what you hazard: how much I must owe you! Forgive me, this is thelast murmur you shall ever hear from these lips. "

An hour after these words were spoken, the marriage ceremony wasconcluded. 

"Caleb, " said the bridegroom, drawing the clergyman aside as they wereabout to re-enter the house, "you will keep your promise, I know; andyou think I may depend implicitly upon the good faith of the witness youhave selected?"

"Upon his good faith?--no, " said Caleb, smiling, "but upon his deafness, his ignorance, and his age. My poor old clerk! He will have forgottenall about it before this day three months. Now I have seen your lady, I no longer wonder that you incur so great a risk. I never beheld solovely a countenance. You will be happy!" And the village priest sighed, and thought of the coming winter and his own lonely hearth. 

"My dear friend, you have only seen her beauty--it is her least charm. Heaven knows how often I have made love; and this is the only woman Ihave ever really loved. Caleb, there is an excellent living that adjoinsmy uncle's house. The rector is old; when the house is mine, you willnot be long without the living. We shall be neighbours, Caleb, and thenyou shall try and find a bride for yourself. Smith, "--and the bridegroomturned to the servant who had accompanied his wife, and served as asecond witness to the marriage, --"tell the post-boy to put to the horsesimmediately. "

"Yes, Sir. May I speak a word with you?"

"Well, what?"

"Your uncle, sir, sent for me to come to him, the day before we lefttown. "

"Aha!--indeed!"

"And I could just pick up among his servants that he had somesuspicion--at least, that he had been making inquiries--and seemed verycross, sir. "

"You went to him?"

"No, Sir, I was afraid. He has such a way with him;--whenever his eyeis fixed on mine, I always feel as if it was impossible to tell a lie;and--and--in short, I thought it was best not to go. "

"You did right. Confound this fellow!" muttered the bridegroom, turningaway; "he is honest, and loves me: yet, if my uncle sees him, he isclumsy enough to betray all. Well, I always meant to get him out of theway--the sooner the better. Smith!"

"Yes, sir!"

"You have often said that you should like, if you had some capital, tosettle in Australia. Your father is an excellent farmer; you are abovethe situation you hold with me; you are well educated, and have someknowledge of agriculture; you can scarcely fail to make a fortune as asettler; and if you are of the same mind still, why, look you, I havejust L1000. At my bankers: you shall have half, if you like to sail bythe first packet. "

"Oh, sir, you are too generous. "

"Nonsense--no thanks--I am more prudent than generous; for I agree withyou that it is all up with me if my uncle gets hold of you. I dread myprying brother, too; in fact, the obligation is on my side; only stayabroad till I am a rich man, and my marriage made public, and then youmay ask of me what you will. It's agreed, then; order the horses, we'llgo round by Liverpool, and learn about the vessels. By the way, my goodfellow, I hope you see nothing now of that good-for-nothing brother ofyours?"

"No, indeed, sir. It's a thousand pities he has turned out so ill; forhe was the cleverest of the family, and could always twist me round hislittle finger. "

"That's the very reason I mentioned him. If he learned our secret, hewould take it to an excellent market. Where is he?"

"Hiding, I suspect, sir. "

"Well, we shall put the sea between you and him! So now all's safe. "

Caleb stood by the porch of his house as the bride and bridegroomentered their humble vehicle. Though then November, the day wasexquisitely mild and calm, the sky without a cloud, and even theleafless trees seemed to smile beneath the cheerful sun. And the youngbride wept no more; she was with him she loved--she was his for ever. She forgot the rest. The hope--the heart of sixteen--spoke brightly outthrough the blushes that mantled over her fair cheeks. The bridegroom'sfrank and manly countenance was radiant with joy. As he waved his handto Caleb from the window the post-boy cracked his whip, the servantsettled himself on the dickey, the horses started off in a brisktrot, --the clergyman was left alone. 

To be married is certainly an event in life; to marry other people is, for a priest, a very ordinary occurrence; and yet, from that day, agreat change began to operate in the spirits and the habits of CalebPrice. Have you ever, my gentle reader, buried yourself for some timequietly in the lazy ease of a dull country-life? Have you ever becomegradually accustomed to its monotony, and inured to its solitude; and, just at the time when you have half-forgotten the great world--that maremagnum that frets and roars in the distance--have you ever received inyour calm retreat some visitor, full of the busy and excited life whichyou imagined yourself contented to relinquish? If so, have you notperceived, that, in proportion as his presence and communication eitherrevived old memories, or brought before you new pictures of "the brighttumult" of that existence of which your guest made a part, --you began tocompare him curiously with yourself; you began to feel that whatbefore was to rest is now to rot; that your years are gliding fromyou unenjoyed and wasted; that the contrast between the animal life ofpassionate civilisation and the vegetable torpor of motionless seclusionis one that, if you are still young, it tasks your philosophy tobear, --feeling all the while that the torpor may be yours to your grave?And when your guest has left you, when you are again alone, is thesolitude the same as it was before?

Our poor Caleb had for years rooted his thoughts to his village. Hisguest had been like the Bird in the Fairy Tale, settling upon the quietbranches, and singing so loudly and so gladly of the enchanted skiesafar, that, when it flew away, the tree pined, nipped and withering inthe sober sun in which before it had basked contented. The guest was, indeed, one of those men whose animal spirits exercise upon such as comewithin their circle the influence and power usually ascribed only tointellectual qualities. During the month he had sojourned with Caleb, he had brought back to the poor parson all the gaiety of the brisk andnoisy novitiate that preceded the solemn vow and the dull retreat;--thesocial parties, the merry suppers, the open-handed, open-heartedfellowship of riotous, delightful, extravagant, thoughtless YOUTH. AndCaleb was not a bookman--not a scholar; he had no resources in himself, no occupation but his indolent and ill-paid duties. The emotions, therefore, of the Active Man were easily aroused within him. But if thiscomparison between his past and present life rendered him restlessand disturbed, how much more deeply and lastingly was he affected bya contrast between his own future and that of his friend! Not in thosepoints where he could never hope equality--wealth and station--theconventional distinctions to which, after all, a man of ordinary sensemust sooner or later reconcile himself--but in that one respect whereinall, high and low, pretend to the same rights--rights which a man ofmoderate warmth of feeling can never willingly renounce--viz. , a partnerin a lot however obscure; a kind face by a hearth, no matter how meanit be! And his happier friend, like all men full of life, was full ofhimself--full of his love, of his future, of the blessings of home, and wife, and children. Then, too, the young bride seemed so fair, soconfiding, and so tender; so formed to grace the noblest or to cheer thehumblest home! And both were so happy, so all in all to each other, as they left that barren threshold! And the priest felt all this, as, melancholy and envious, he turned from the door in that November day, tofind himself thoroughly alone. He now began seriously to muse uponthose fancied blessings which men wearied with celibacy see springing, heavenward, behind the altar. A few weeks afterwards a notable changewas visible in the good man's exterior. He became more careful of hisdress, he shaved every morning, he purchased a crop-eared Welsh cob; andit was soon known in the neighbourhood that the only journey the cob wasever condemned to take was to the house of a certain squire, who, amidsta family of all ages, boasted two very pretty marriageable daughters. That was the second holy day-time of poor Caleb--the love-romance of hislife: it soon closed. On learning the amount of the pastor's stipend thesquire refused to receive his addresses; and, shortly after, the girlto whom he had attached himself made what the world calls a happymatch: and perhaps it was one, for I never heard that she regretted theforsaken lover. Probably Caleb was not one of those whose place in awoman's heart is never to be supplied. The lady married, the world wentround as before, the brook danced as merrily through the village, the poor worked on the week-days, and the urchins gambolled round thegravestones on the Sabbath, --and the pastor's heart was broken. Helanguished gradually and silently away. The villagers observed thathe had lost his old good-humoured smile; that he did not stop everySaturday evening at the carrier's gate, to ask if there were any newsstirring in the town which the carrier weekly visited; that he did notcome to borrow the stray newspapers that now and then found their wayinto the village; that, as he sauntered along the brookside, his clotheshung loose on his limbs, and that he no longer "whistled as he went;"alas, he was no longer "in want of thought!" By degrees, the walksthemselves were suspended; the parson was no longer visible: a strangerperformed his duties. 

One day, it might be some three years and more after the fatal visit Ihave commemorated--one very wild rough day in early March, the postman, who made the round of the district, rang at the parson's bell. Thesingle female servant, her red hair loose on her neck, replied to thecall. 

"And how is the master?"

"Very bad;" and the girl wiped her eyes. 

"He should leave you something handsome, " remarked the postman, kindly, as he pocketed the money for the letter. 

The pastor was in bed--the boisterous wind rattled clown the chimney andshook the ill-fitting casement in its rotting frame. The clothes hehad last worn were thrown carelessly about, unsmoothed, unbrushed; thescanty articles of furniture were out of their proper places; slovenlydiscomfort marked the death-chamber. And by the bedside stood aneighbouring clergyman, a stout, rustic, homely, thoroughly Welshpriest, who might have sat for the portrait of Parson Adams. 

"Here's a letter for you, " said the visitor. 

"For me!" echoed Caleb, feebly. "Ah--well--is it not very dark, or aremy eyes failing?" The clergyman and the servant drew aside the curtainsand propped the sick man up: he read as follows, slowly, and withdifficulty:

"DEAR, CALEB, --At last I can do something for you. A friend of mine hasa living in his gift just vacant, worth, I understand, from three tofour hundred a year: pleasant neighbourhood--small parish. And myfriend keeps the hounds!--just the thing for you. He is, however, avery particular sort of person--wants a companion, and has a horror ofanything evangelical; wishes, therefore, to see you before he decides. If you can meet me in London, some day next month, I'll present you tohim, and I have no doubt it will be settled. You must think it strange Inever wrote to you since we parted, but you know I never was a very goodcorrespondent; and as I had nothing to communicate advantageous to youI thought it a sort of insult to enlarge on my own happiness, and soforth. All I shall say on that score is, that I've sown my wild oats;and that you may take my word for it, there's nothing that can makea man know how large, the heart is, and how little the world, tillhe comes home (perhaps after a hard day's hunting) and sees his ownfireside, and hears one dear welcome; and--oh, by the way, Caleb, if youcould but see my boy, the sturdiest little rogue! But enough of this. All that vexes me is, that I've never yet been able to declare mymarriage: my uncle, however, suspects nothing: my wife bears up againstall, like an angel as she is; still, in case of any accident, it occursto me, now I'm writing to you, especially if you leave the place, thatit may be as well to send me an examined copy of the register. In thoseremote places registers are often lost or mislaid; and it may be usefulhereafter, when I proclaim the marriage, to clear up all doubt as to thefact. 

"Good-bye, old fellow, "Yours most truly, &c. , &c. "

"It comes too late, " sighed Caleb, heavily; and the letter fell from hishands. There was a long pause. "Close the shutters, " said the sick man, at last; "I think I could sleep: and--and--pick up that letter. "

With a trembling, but eager gripe, he seized the paper, as a miser wouldseize the deeds of an estate on which he has a mortgage. He smoothedthe folds, looked complacently at the well-known hand, smiled--a ghastlysmile! and then placed the letter under his pillow, and sank down; theyleft him alone. He did not wake for some hours, and that good clergyman, poor as himself, was again at his post. The only friendships that arereally with us in the hour of need are those which are cementedby equality of circumstance. In the depth of home, in the hour oftribulation, by the bed of death, the rich and the poor are seldom foundside by side. Caleb was evidently much feebler; but his sense seemedclearer than it had been, and the instincts of his native kindness werethe last that left him. "There is something he wants me do for him, " hemuttered. 

"Ah! I remember: Jones, will you send for the parish register? It issomewhere in the vestry-room, I think--but nothing's kept properly. Better go yourself--'tis important. "

Mr. Jones nodded, and sallied forth. The register was not in the vestry;the church-wardens knew nothing about it; the clerk--a new clerk, whowas also the sexton, and rather a wild fellow--had gone ten miles off toa wedding: every place was searched; till, at last, the book was found, amidst a heap of old magazines and dusty papers, in the parlour ofCaleb himself. By the time it was brought to him, the sufferer was fastdeclining; with some difficulty his dim eye discovered the place where, amidst the clumsy pothooks of the parishioners, the large clear hand ofthe old friend, and the trembling characters of the bride, looked forth, distinguished. 

"Extract this for me, will you?" said Caleb. Mr. Jones obeyed. 

"Now, just write above the extract:

"'Sir, --By Mr. Price's desire I send you the inclosed. He is too ill towrite himself. But he bids me say that he has never been quite the sameman since you left him; and that, if he should not get well again, stillyour kind letter has made him easier in his mind. "

Caleb stopped. 

"Go on. "

"That is all I have to say: sign your name, and put the address--hereit is. Ah, the letter, " he muttered, "must not lie about! If anythinghappens to me, it may get him into trouble. "

And as Mr. Jones sealed his communication, Caleb feebly stretched hiswan hand, held the letter which had "come too late" over the flame ofthe candle. As the blazing paper dropped on the carpetless floor, Mr. Jones prudently set thereon the broad sole of his top-boot, and themaidservant brushed the tinder into the grate. 

"Ah, trample it out:--hurry it amongst the ashes. The last as the rest, "said Caleb, hoarsely. "Friendship, fortune, hope, love, life--a littleflame, and then--and then--"

"Don't be uneasy--it's quite out!" said Mr. Jones. Caleb turned his faceto the wall. He lingered till the next day, when he passed insensiblyfrom sleep to death. As soon as the breath was out of his body, Mr. Jones felt that his duty was discharged, that other duties calledhim home. He promised to return to read the burial-service over thedeceased, gave some hasty orders about the plain funeral, and wasturning from the room, when he saw the letter he had written by Caleb'swish, still on the table. "I pass the post-office--I'll put it in, " saidhe to the weeping servant; "and just give me that scrap of paper. " Sohe wrote on the scrap, "P. S. He died this morning at half-past twelve, without pain. --M. J. ;" and not taking the trouble to break the seal, thrust the final bulletin into the folds of the letter, which he thencarefully placed in his vast pocket, and safely transferred to the post. And that was all that the jovial and happy man, to whom the letter wasaddressed, ever heard of the last days of his college friend. 

The living, vacant by the death of Caleb Price, was not so valuable asto plague the patron with many applications. It continued vacantnearly the whole of the six months prescribed by law. And the desolateparsonage was committed to the charge of one of the villagers, whohad occasionally assisted Caleb in the care of his little garden. The villager, his wife, and half-a-dozen noisy, ragged children, tookpossession of the quiet bachelor's abode. The furniture had been sold topay the expenses of the funeral, and a few trifling bills; and, savethe kitchen and the two attics, the empty house, uninhabited, wassurrendered to the sportive mischief of the idle urchins, who prowledabout the silent chambers in fear of the silence, and in ecstasy at thespace. The bedroom in which Caleb had died was, indeed, long held sacredby infantine superstition. But one day the eldest boy having venturedacross the threshold, two cupboards, the doors standing ajar, attractedthe child's curiosity. He opened one, and his exclamation soon broughtthe rest of the children round him. Have you ever, reader, when a boy, suddenly stumbled on that El Dorado, called by the grown-up folks alumber room? Lumber, indeed! what Virtu double-locks in cabinets is thereal lumber to the boy! Lumber, reader! to thee it was a treasury!Now this cupboard had been the lumber-room in Caleb's household. In aninstant the whole troop had thrown themselves on the motley contents. Stray joints of clumsy fishing-rods; artificial baits; a pair ofworn-out top-boots, in which one of the urchins, whooping and shouting, buried himself up to the middle; moth-eaten, stained, and ragged, the collegian's gown-relic of the dead man's palmy time; a bag ofcarpenter's tools, chiefly broken; a cricket-bat; an odd boxing-glove;a fencing-foil, snapped in the middle; and, more than all, somehalf-finished attempts at rude toys: a boat, a cart, a doll's house, inwhich the good-natured Caleb had busied himself for the younger ones ofthat family in which he had found the fatal ideal of his trite life. Oneby one were these lugged forth from their dusty slumber-profane handsstruggling for the first right of appropriation. And now, revealedagainst the wall, glared upon the startled violators of the sanctuary, with glassy eyes and horrent visage, a grim monster. They huddled backone upon the other, pale and breathless, till the eldest, seeing thatthe creature moved not, took heart, approached on tip-toe-twice receded, and twice again advanced, and finally drew out, daubed, painted, andtricked forth in the semblance of a griffin, a gigantic kite. 

The children, alas! were not old and wise enough to knew all the dormantvalue of that imprisoned aeronaut, which had cost Caleb many a dullevening's labour--the intended gift to the false one's favouritebrother. But they guessed that it was a thing or spirit appertaining ofright to them; and they resolved, after mature consultation, to impartthe secret of their discovery to an old wooden-legged villager, who hadserved in the army, who was the idol of all the children of the place, and who, they firmly believed, knew everything under the sun, except themystical arts of reading and writing. Accordingly, having seen that thecoast was clear--for they considered their parents (as the children ofthe hard-working often do) the natural foes to amusement--they carriedthe monster into an old outhouse, and ran to the veteran to beg him tocome up slyly and inspect its properties. 

Three months after this memorable event, arrived the new pastor--a slim, prim, orderly, and starch young man, framed by nature and trained bypractice to bear a great deal of solitude and starving. Two lovingcouples had waited to be married till his Reverence should arrive. The ceremony performed, where was the registry-book? The vestry wassearched-the church-wardens interrogated; the gay clerk, who, on thedemise of his deaf predecessor, had come into office a little beforeCaleb's last illness, had a dim recollection of having taken theregistry up to Mr. Price at the time the vestry-room was whitewashed. The house was searched-the cupboard, the mysterious cupboard, wasexplored. "Here it is, sir!" cried the clerk; and he pounced upon apale parchment volume. The thin clergyman opened it, and recoiled indismay--more than three-fourths of the leaves had been torn out. 

"It is the moths, sir, " said the gardener's wife, who had not yetremoved from the house. 

The clergyman looked round; one of the children was trembling. "Whathave you done to this book, little one?"

"That book?--the--hi!--hi!--"

"Speak the truth, and you sha'n't be punished. "

"I did not know it was any harm--hi!--hi!--"

"Well, and--"

"And old Ben helped us. "

"Well?"

"And--and--and--hi!--hi!--The tail of the kite, sir!--"

"Where is the kite?"

Alas! the kite and its tail were long ago gone to that undiscoveredlimbo where all things lost, broken, vanished, and destroyed; thingsthat lose themselves--for servants are too honest to steal; thingsthat break themselves--for servants are too careful to break; find aneverlasting and impenetrable refuge. 

"It does not signify a pin's head, " said the clerk; "the parish mustfind a new 'un!"

"It is no fault of mine, " said the Pastor. "Are my chops ready?"

CHAPTER II. 

"And soothed with idle dreams the frowning fate. "--CRABBE. 

"Why does not my father come back? what a time he has been away!"

"My dear Philip, business detains him; but he will be here in a fewdays--perhaps to-day!"

"I should like him to see how much I am improved. "

"Improved in what, Philip?" said the mother, with a smile. "Not Latin, Iam sure; for I have not seen you open a book since you insisted on poorTodd's dismissal. "

"Todd! Oh, he was such a scrub, and spoke through his nose: what couldhe know of Latin?"

"More than you ever will, I fear, unless--" and here there was a certainhesitation in the mother's voice, "unless your father consents to yourgoing to school. "

"Well, I should like to go to Eton! That's the only school for agentleman. I've heard my father say so. "

"Philip, you are too proud. "--"Proud! you often call me proud; but, then, you kiss me when you do so. Kiss me now, mother. "

The lady drew her son to her breast, put aside the clustering hair fromhis forehead, and kissed him; but the kiss was sad, and the momentafter she pushed him away gently and muttered, unconscious that she wasoverheard:

"If, after all, my devotion to the father should wrong the children!"

The boy started, and a cloud passed over his brow; but he said nothing. A light step entered the room through the French casements that openedon the lawn, and the mother turned to her youngest-born, and her eyebrightened. 

"Mamma! mamma! here is a letter for you. I snatched it from John: it ispapa's handwriting. "

The lady uttered a joyous exclamation, and seized the letter. Theyounger child nestled himself on a stool at her feet, looking upwhile she read it; the elder stood apart, leaning on his gun, and withsomething of thought, even of gloom, upon his countenance. 

There was a strong contrast in the two boys. The elder, who was aboutfifteen, seemed older than he was, not only from his height, but fromthe darkness of his complexion, and a certain proud, nay, imperious, expression upon features that, without having the soft and fluentgraces of childhood, were yet regular and striking. His dark-greenshooting-dress, with the belt and pouch, the cap, with its gold tasselset upon his luxuriant curls, which had the purple gloss of the raven'splume, blended perhaps something prematurely manly in his own tastes, with the love of the fantastic and the picturesque which bespeaks thepresiding genius of the proud mother. The younger son had scarcely toldhis ninth year; and the soft, auburn ringlets, descending half-way downthe shoulders; the rich and delicate bloom that exhibits at once thehardy health and the gentle fostering; the large deep-blue eyes; theflexile and almost effeminate contour of the harmonious features;altogether made such an ideal of childlike beauty as Lawrence had lovedto paint or Chantrey model. And the daintiest cares of a mother, who, as yet, has her darling all to herself--her toy, her plaything--werevisible in the large falling collar of finest cambric, and the bluevelvet dress with its filigree buttons and embroidered sash. 

Both the boys had about them the air of those whom Fate ushers blandlyinto life; the air of wealth, and birth, and luxury, spoiled andpampered as if earth had no thorn for their feet, and heaven not a windto visit their young cheeks too roughly. The mother had been extremelyhandsome; and though the first bloom of youth was now gone, she hadstill the beauty that might captivate new love--an easier task thanto retain the old. Both her sons, though differing from each other, resembled her; she had the features of the younger; and probably any onewho had seen her in her own earlier youth would have recognized in thatchild's gay yet gentle countenance the mirror of the mother when a girl. Now, however, especially when silent or thoughtful, the expression ofher face was rather that of the elder boy;--the cheek, once so rosy wasnow pale, though clear, with something which time had given, of prideand thought, in the curved lip and the high forehead. One who could havelooked on her in her more lonely hours, might have seen that the pridehad known shame, and the thought was the shadow of the passions of fearand sorrow. 

But now as she read those hasty, brief, but well-rememberedcharacters--read as one whose heart was in her eyes--joy and triumphalone were visible in that eloquent countenance. Her eyes flashed, her breast heaved; and at length, clasping the letter to her lips, shekissed it again and again with passionate transport. Then, as her eyesmet the dark, inquiring, earnest gaze of her eldest born, she flung herarms round him, and wept vehemently. 

"What is the matter, mamma, dear mamma?" said the youngest, pushinghimself between Philip and his mother. "Your father is coming back, this day--this very hour;--and you--you--child--you, Philip--" Here sobsbroke in upon her words, and left her speechless. 

The letter that had produced this effect ran as follows:

TO MRS MORTON, Fernside Cottage. 

"DEAREST KATE, --My last letter prepared you for the news I have nowto relate--my poor uncle is no more. Though I had seen little of him, especially of late years, his death sensibly affected me; but I have atleast the consolation of thinking that there is nothing now to preventmy doing justice to you. I am the sole heir to his fortune--I have it inmy power, dearest Kate, to offer you a tardy recompense for all you haveput up with for my sake;--a sacred testimony to your long forbearance, your unreproachful love, your wrongs, and your devotion. Our children, too--my noble Philip!--kiss them, Kate--kiss them for me a thousandtimes. 

"I write in great haste--the burial is just over, and my letter willonly serve to announce my return. My darling Catherine, I shall be withyou almost as soon as these lines meet your eyes--those clear eyes, that, for all the tears they have shed for my faults and follies, havenever looked the less kind. Yours, ever as ever, "PHILIP BEAUFORT. 

This letter has told its tale, and little remains to explain. PhilipBeaufort was one of those men of whom there are many in his peculiarclass of society--easy, thoughtless, good-humoured, generous, withfeelings infinitely better than his principles. 

Inheriting himself but a moderate fortune, which was three parts in thehands of the Jews before he was twenty-five, he had the most brilliantexpectations from his uncle; an old bachelor, who, from a courtier, hadturned a misanthrope--cold--shrewd--penetrating--worldly--sarcastic--andimperious; and from this relation he received, meanwhile, a handsomeand, indeed, munificent allowance. About sixteen years before the dateat which this narrative opens, Philip Beaufort had "run off, " as thesaying is, with Catherine Morton, then little more than a child, --amotherless child--educated at a boarding-school to notions and desiresfar beyond her station; for she was the daughter of a provincialtradesman. And Philip Beaufort, in the prime of life, was possessed ofmost of the qualities that dazzle the eyes and many of the arts thatbetray the affections. It was suspected by some that they were privatelymarried: if so, the secret had been closely kept, and baffled all theinquiries of the stern old uncle. Still there was much, not only in themanner, at once modest and dignified, but in the character of Catherine, which was proud and high-spirited, to give colour to the suspicion. Beaufort, a man naturally careless of forms, paid her a marked andpunctilious respect; and his attachment was evidently one not only ofpassion, but of confidence and esteem. Time developed in her mentalqualities far superior to those of Beaufort, and for these she hadample leisure of cultivation. To the influence derived from her mind andperson she added that of a frank, affectionate, and winning disposition;their children cemented the bond between them. Mr. Beaufort waspassionately attached to field sports. He lived the greater part ofthe year with Catherine, at the beautiful cottage to which he had builthunting stables that were the admiration of the county; and though thecottage was near London, the pleasures of the metropolis seldom alluredhim for more than a few days--generally but a few hours-at a time; andhe--always hurried back with renewed relish to what he considered hishome. 

Whatever the connection between Catherine and himself (and of the truenature of that connection, the Introductory Chapter has made the readermore enlightened than the world), her influence had, at least, weanedfrom all excesses, and many follies, a man who, before he knew her, had seemed likely, from the extreme joviality and carelessness of hisnature, and a very imperfect education, to contract whatever vices weremost in fashion as preservatives against ennui. And if their union hadbeen openly hallowed by the Church, Philip Beaufort had been universallyesteemed the model of a tender husband and a fond father. Ever, as hebecame more and more acquainted with Catherine's natural good qualities, and more and more attached to his home, had Mr. Beaufort, with thegenerosity of true affection, desired to remove from her the pain ofan equivocal condition by a public marriage. But Mr. Beaufort, though generous, was not free from the worldliness which had met himeverywhere, amidst the society in which his youth had been spent. Hisuncle, the head of one of those families which yearly vanish from thecommonalty into the peerage, but which once formed a distinguishedpeculiarity in the aristocracy of England--families of ancient birth, immense possessions, at once noble and untitled--held his estates by noother tenure than his own caprice. Though he professed to like Philip, yet he saw but little of him. When the news of the illicit connectionhis nephew was reported to have formed reached him, he at first resolvedto break it off; but observing that Philip no longer gambled, nor ranin debt, and had retired from the turf to the safer and more economicalpastimes of the field, he contented himself with inquiries whichsatisfied him that Philip was not married; and perhaps he thought it, onthe whole, more prudent to wink at an error that was not attended by thebills which had here-to-fore characterised the human infirmities of hisreckless nephew. He took care, however, incidentally, and in referenceto some scandal of the day, to pronounce his opinion, not upon thefault, but upon the only mode of repairing it. 

"If ever, " said he, and he looked grimly at Philip while he spoke, "agentleman were to disgrace his ancestry by introducing into his familyone whom his own sister could not receive at her house, why, he oughtto sink to her level, and wealth would but make his disgrace the morenotorious. If I had an only son, and that son were booby enough to doanything so discreditable as to marry beneath him, I would rather havemy footman for my successor. You understand, Phil!"

Philip did understand, and looked round at the noble house andthe stately park, and his generosity was not equal to the trial. Catherine--so great was her power over him--might, perhaps, have easilytriumphed over his more selfish calculations; but her love was toodelicate ever to breathe, of itself, the hope that lay deepest at herheart. And her children!--ah! for them she pined, but for them she alsohoped. Before them was a long future, and she had all confidence inPhilip. Of late, there had been considerable doubts how far the elderBeaufort would realise the expectations in which his nephew had beenreared. Philip's younger brother had been much with the old gentleman, and appeared to be in high favour: this brother was a man in everyrespect the opposite to Philip--sober, supple, decorous, ambitious, witha face of smiles and a heart of ice. 

But the old gentleman was taken dangerously ill, and Philip was summonedto his bed of death. Robert, the younger brother, was there also, withhis wife (who he had married prudently) and his children (he had two, ason and a daughter). Not a word did the uncle say as to the dispositionof his property till an hour before he died. And then, turning in hisbed, he looked first at one nephew, then at the other, and faltered out:

"Philip, you are a scapegrace, but a gentleman! Robert, you are acareful, sober, plausible man; and it is a great pity you were not inbusiness; you would have made a fortune!--you won't inherit one, thoughyou think it: I have marked you, sir. Philip, beware of your brother. Now let me see the parson. "

The old man died; the will was read; and Philip succeeded to a rental ofL20, 000. A-year; Robert, to a diamond ring, a gold repeater, L5, 000. Anda curious collection of bottled snakes. 

CHAPTER III. 

 "Stay, delightful Dream;

 Let him within his pleasant garden walk; Give him her arm--of blessings let them talk. "--CRABBE. 

"There, Robert, there! now you can see the new stables. By Jove, theyare the completest thing in the three kingdoms!"

"Quite a pile! But is that the house? You lodge your horses moremagnificently than yourself. "

"But is it not a beautiful cottage?--to be sure, it owes everything toCatherine's taste. Dear Catherine!"

Mr. Robert Beaufort, for this colloquy took place between the brothers, as their britska rapidly descended the hill, at the foot of which layFernside Cottage and its miniature demesnes--Mr. Robert Beaufort pulledhis travelling cap over his brows, and his countenance fell, whether atthe name of Catherine, or the tone in which the name was uttered; andthere was a pause, broken by a third occupant of the britska, a youth ofabout seventeen, who sat opposite the brothers. 

"And who are those boys on the lawn, uncle?"

"Who are those boys?" It was a simple question, but it grated on the earof Mr. Robert Beaufort--it struck discord at his heart. "Who were thoseboys?" as they ran across the sward, eager to welcome their father home;the westering sun shining full on their joyous faces--their young formsso lithe and so graceful--their merry laughter ringing in the still air. "Those boys, " thought Mr. Robert Beaufort, "the sons of shame, rob mineof his inheritance. " The elder brother turned round at his nephew'squestion, and saw the expression on Robert's face. He bit his lip, andanswered, gravely:

"Arthur, they are my children. "

"I did not know you were married, " replied Arthur, bending forward totake a better view of his cousins. 

Mr. Robert Beaufort smiled bitterly, and Philip's brow grew crimson. 

The carriage stopped at the little lodge. Philip opened the door, andjumped to the ground; the brother and his son followed. A moment more, and Philip was locked in Catherine's arms, her tears falling fast uponhis breast; his children plucking at his coat; and the younger onecrying in his shrill, impatient treble, "Papa! papa! you don't seeSidney, papa!"

Mr. Robert Beaufort placed his hand on his son's shoulder, and arrestedhis steps, as they contemplated the group before them. 

"Arthur, " said he, in a hollow whisper, "those children are our disgraceand your supplanters; they are bastards! bastards! and they are to behis heirs!"

Arthur made no answer, but the smile with which he had hitherto gazed onhis new relations vanished. 

"Kate, " said Mr. Beaufort, as he turned from Mrs. Morton, and liftedhis youngest-born in his arms, "this is my brother and his son: they arewelcome, are they not?"

Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his hand, with stiff affability, toMrs. Morton, muttering something equally complimentary and inaudible. 

The party proceeded towards the house. Philip and Arthur brought up therear. 

"Do you shoot?" asked Arthur, observing the gun in his cousin's hand. 

"Yes. I hope this season to bag as many head as my father: he is afamous shot. But this is only a single barrel, and an old-fashioned sortof detonator. My father must get me one of the new gulls. I can't affordit myself. "

"I should think not, " said Arthur, smiling. 

"Oh, as to that, " resumed Philip, quickly, and with a heightened colour, "I could have managed it very well if I had not given thirty guineas fora brace of pointers the other day: they are the best dogs you ever saw. "

"Thirty guineas!" echoed Arthur, looking with native surprise at thespeaker; "why, how old are you?"

"Just fifteen last birthday. Holla, John! John Green!" cried the younggentleman in an imperious voice, to one of the gardeners, who wascrossing the lawn, "see that the nets are taken down to the laketo-morrow, and that my tent is pitched properly, by the lime-trees, bynine o'clock. I hope you will understand me this time: Heaven knows youtake a deal of telling before you understand anything!"

"Yes, Mr. Philip, " said the man, bowing obsequiously; and then muttered, as he went off, "Drat the nat'rel! He speaks to a poor man as if hewarn't flesh and blood. "

"Does your father keep hunters?" asked Philip. No. "

"Why?"

"Perhaps one reason may be, that he is not rich enough. "

"Oh! that's a pity. Never mind, we'll mount you, whenever you like topay us a visit. "

Young Arthur drew himself up, and his air, naturally frank and gentle, became haughty and reserved. Philip gazed on him, and felt offended;he scarce knew why, but from that moment he conceived a dislike to hiscousin. 

CHAPTER IV. 

 "For a man is helpless and vain, of a condition so exposed to calamity that a raisin is able to kill him; any trooper out of the Egyptian army--a fly can do it, when it goes on God's errand. " --JEREMY TAYLOR On the Deceitfulness of the Heart. 

The two brothers sat at their wine after dinner. Robert sipped claret, the sturdy Philip quaffed his more generous port. Catherine and the boysmight be seen at a little distance, and by the light of a soft Augustmoon, among the shrubs and boseluets of the lawn. 

Philip Beaufort was about five-and-forty, tall, robust, nay, of greatstrength of frame and limb; with a countenance extremely winning, notonly from the comeliness of its features, but its frankness, manliness, and good nature. His was the bronzed, rich complexion, the inclinationtowards embonpoint, the athletic girth of chest, which denote redundanthealth, and mirthful temper, and sanguine blood. Robert, who had livedthe life of cities, was a year younger than his brother; nearly as tall, but pale, meagre, stooping, and with a careworn, anxious, hungry look, which made the smile that hung upon his lips seem hollow and artificial. His dress, though plain, was neat and studied; his manner, bland andplausible; his voice, sweet and low: there was that about him which, ifit did not win liking, tended to excite respect--a certain decorum, anameless propriety of appearance and bearing, that approached a littleto formality: his every movement, slow and measured, was that of onewho paced in the circle that fences round the habits and usages of theworld. 

"Yes, " said Philip, "I had always decided to take this step, whenevermy poor uncle's death should allow me to do so. You have seen Catherine, but you do not know half her good qualities: she would grace anystation; and, besides, she nursed me so carefully last year, when Ibroke my collar-bone in that cursed steeple-chase. Egad, I am gettingtoo heavy and growing too old for such schoolboy pranks. "

"I have no doubt of Mrs. Morton's excellence, and I honour your motives;still, when you talk of her gracing any station, you must not forget, my dear brother, that she will be no more received as Mrs. Beaufort thanshe is now as Mrs. Morton. "

"But I tell you, Robert, that I am really married to her already; thatshe would never have left her home but on that condition; that we weremarried the very day we met after her flight. "

Robert's thin lips broke into a slight sneer of incredulity. "My dearbrother, you do right to say this--any man in your situation would saythe same. But I know that my uncle took every pains to ascertain if thereport of a private marriage were true. "

"And you helped him in the search. Eh, Bob?"

Bob slightly blushed. Philip went on. 

"Ha, ha! to be sure you did; you knew that such a discovery would havedone for me in the old gentleman's good opinion. But I blinded you both, ha, ha! The fact is, that we were married with the greatest privacy;that even now, I own, it would be difficult for Catherine herself toestablish the fact, unless I wished it. I am ashamed to think that Ihave never even told her where I keep the main proof of the marriage. Iinduced one witness to leave the country, the other must be longsince dead: my poor friend, too, who officiated, is no more. Eventhe register, Bob, the register itself, has been destroyed: and yet, notwithstanding, I will prove the ceremony and clear up poor Catherine'sfame; for I have the attested copy of the register safe and sound. Catherine not married! why, look at her, man!"

Mr. Robert Beaufort glanced at the window for a moment, but hiscountenance was still that of one unconvinced. "Well, brother, " said he, dipping his fingers in the water-glass, "it is not for me to contradictyou. It is a very curious tale--parson dead--witnesses missing. Butstill, as I said before, if you are resolved on a public marriage, youare wise to insist that there has been a previous private one. Yet, believe me, Philip, " continued Robert, with solemn earnestness, "theworld--"

"Damn the world! What do I care for the world! We don't want to go torouts and balls, and give dinners to fine people. I shall live much thesame as I have always done; only, I shall now keep the hounds--they arevery indifferently kept at present--and have a yacht; and engage thebest masters for the boys. Phil wants to go to Eton, but I know whatEton is: poor fellow! his feelings might be hurt there, if others are assceptical as yourself. I suppose my old friends will not be less civilnow I have L20, 000. A year. And as for the society of women, between youand me, I don't care a rush for any woman but Catherine: poor Katty!"

"Well, you are the best judge of your own affairs: you don'tmisinterpret my motives?"

"My dear Bob, no. I am quite sensible how kind it is in you--a manof your starch habits and strict views, coming here to pay a mark ofrespect to Kate (Mr. Robert turned uneasily in his chair)--even beforeyou knew of the private marriage, and I'm sure I don't blame you fornever having done it before. You did quite right to try your chance withmy uncle. "

Mr. Robert turned in his chair again, still more uneasily, and clearedhis voice as if to speak. But Philip tossed off his wine, and proceeded, without heeding his brother, --

"And though the poor old man does not seem to have liked you the betterfor consulting his scruples, yet we must make up for the partiality ofhis will. Let me see--what with your wife's fortune, you muster L2000. Ayear?"

"Only L1500. , Philip, and Arthur's education is growing expensive. Nextyear he goes to college. He is certainly very clever, and I have greathopes--"

"That he will do Honour to us all--so have I. He is a noble youngfellow: and I think my Philip may find a great deal to learn fromhim, --Phil is a sad idle dog; but with a devil of a spirit, and sharpas a needle. I wish you could see him ride. Well, to return to Arthur. Don't trouble yourself about his education--that shall be my care. Heshall go to Christ Church--a gentleman-commoner, of course--and when heis of age we'll get him into parliament. Now for yourself, Bob. I shallsell the town-house in Berkeley Square, and whatever it brings you shallhave. Besides that, I'll add L1500. A year to your L1000. --so that'ssaid and done. Pshaw! brothers should be brothers. --Let's come out andplay with the boys!"

The two Beauforts stepped through the open casement into the lawn. 

"You look pale, Bob--all you London fellows do. As for me, I feel asstrong as a horse: much better than when I was one of your gay dogsstraying loose about the town'. 'Gad, I have never had a moment's illhealth, except from a fall now and then. I feel as if I should live forever, and that's the reason why I could never make a will. "

"Have you never, then, made your will?"

"Never as yet. Faith, till now, I had little enough to leave. But nowthat all this great Beaufort property is at my own disposal, I mustthink of Kate's jointure. By Jove! now I speak of it, I will rideto----to-morrow, and consult the lawyer there both about the will andthe marriage. You will stay for the wedding?"

"Why, I must go into ------shire to-morrow evening, to place Arthur withhis tutor. But I'll return for the wedding, if you particularly wish it:only Mrs. Beaufort is a woman of very strict--"

"I--do particularly wish it, " interrupted Philip, gravely; "for Idesire, for Catherine's sake, that you, my sole surviving relation, maynot seem to withhold your countenance from an act of justice to her. And as for your wife, I fancy L1500. A year would reconcile her to mymarrying out of the Penitentiary. "

Mr. Robert bowed his head, coughed huskily, and said, "I appreciate yourgenerous affection, Philip. "

The next morning, while the elder parties were still over thebreakfast-table, the younger people were in the grounds it was a lovelyday, one of the last of the luxuriant August--and Arthur, as he lookedround, thought he had never seen a more beautiful place. It was, indeed, just the spot to captivate a youthful and susceptible fancy. The villageof Fernside, though in one of the counties adjoining Middlesex, and asnear to London as the owner's passionate pursuits of the field wouldpermit, was yet as rural and sequestered as if a hundred miles distantfrom the smoke of the huge city. Though the dwelling was called acottage, Philip had enlarged the original modest building into a villaof some pretensions. On either side a graceful and well-proportionedportico stretched verandahs, covered with roses and clematis; to theright extended a range of costly conservatories, terminating in vistasof trellis-work which formed those elegant alleys called rosaries, andserved to screen the more useful gardens from view. The lawn, smooth andeven, was studded with American plants and shrubs in flower, and boundedon one side by a small lake, on the opposite bank of which limes andcedars threw their shadows over the clear waves. On the other side alight fence separated the grounds from a large paddock, in which threeor four hunters grazed in indolent enjoyment. It was one of thosecottages which bespeak the ease and luxury not often found in moreostentatious mansions--an abode which, at sixteen, the visitorcontemplates with vague notions of poetry and love--which, at forty, hemight think dull and d---d expensive-which, at sixty, he would pronounceto be damp in winter, and full of earwigs in the summer. Master Philipwas leaning on his gun; Master Sidney was chasing a peacock butterfly;Arthur was silently gazing on the shining lake and the still foliagethat drooped over its surface. In the countenance of this young manthere was something that excited a certain interest. He was lesshandsome than Philip, but the expression of his face was moreprepossessing. There was something of pride in the forehead; but of goodnature, not unmixed with irresolution and weakness, in the curves of themouth. He was more delicate of frame than Philip; and the colour of hiscomplexion was not that of a robust constitution. His movements weregraceful and self-possessed, and he had his father's sweetness of voice. "This is really beautiful!--I envy you, cousin Philip. "

"Has not your father got a country-house?"

"No: we live either in London or at some hot, crowded watering-place. "

"Yes; this is very nice during the shooting and hunting season. But myold nurse says we shall have a much finer place now. I liked this verywell till I saw Lord Belville's place. But it is very unpleasant not tohave the finest house in the county: aut Caesar aut nullus--that's mymotto. Ah! do you see that swallow? I'll bet you a guinea I hit it. ""No, poor thing! don't hurt it. " But ere the remonstrance was uttered, the bird lay quivering on the ground. "It is just September, and onemust keep one's hand in, " said Philip, as he reloaded his gun. 

To Arthur this action seemed a wanton cruelty; it was rather the wantonrecklessness which belongs to a wild boy accustomed to gratify theimpulse of the moment--the recklessness which is not cruelty in the boy, but which prosperity may pamper into cruelty in the man. And scarcehad he reloaded his gun before the neigh of a young colt came from theneighbouring paddock, and Philip bounded to the fence. "He calls me, poor fellow; you shall see him feed from my hand. Run in for a pieceof bread--a large piece, Sidney. " The boy and the animal seemed tounderstand each other. "I see you don't like horses, " he said to Arthur. "As for me, I love dogs, horses--every dumb creature. "

"Except swallows. " said Arthur, with a half smile, and a littlesurprised at the inconsistency of the boast. 

"Oh! that is short, --all fair: it is not to hurt the swallow--it is toobtain skill, " said Philip, colouring; and then, as if not quite easywith his own definition, he turned away abruptly. 

"This is dull work--suppose we fish. By Jove!" (he had caught hisfather's expletive) "that blockhead has put the tent on the wrong sideof the lake, after all. Holla, you, sir!" and the unhappy gardenerlooked up from his flower-beds; "what ails you? I have a great mind totell my father of you--you grow stupider every day. I told you to putthe tent under the lime-trees. "

"We could not manage it, sir; the boughs were in the way. "

"And why did you not cut the boughs, blockhead?"

"I did not dare do so, sir, without master's orders, " said the mandoggedly. 

"My orders are sufficient, I should think; so none of yourimpertinence, " cried Philip, with a raised colour; and lifting his hand, in which he held his ramrod, he shook it menacingly over the gardener'shead, --"I've a great mind to----"

"What's the matter, Philip?" cried the good-humoured voice of hisfather. "Fie!"

"This fellow does not mind what I say, sir. "

"I did not like to cut the boughs of the lime-trees without your orders, sir, " said the gardener. 

"No, it would be a pity to cut them. You should consult me there, MasterPhilip;" and the father shook him by the collar with a good-natured, andaffectionate, but rough sort of caress. 

"Be quiet, father!" said the boy, petulantly and proudly; "or, " headded, in a lower voice, but one which showed emotion, "my cousin maythink you mean less kindly than you always do, sir. "

The father was touched: "Go and cut the lime-boughs, John; and always doas Mr. Philip tells you. "

The mother was behind, and she sighed audibly. "Ah! dearest, I fear youwill spoil him. "

"Is he not your son? and do we not owe him the more respect for havinghitherto allowed others to--"

He stopped, and the mother could say no more. And thus it was, that thisboy of powerful character and strong passions had, from motives the mostamiable, been pampered from the darling into the despot. 

"And now, Kate, I will, as I told you last night, ride over to ---- andfix the earliest day for our public marriage: I will ask the lawyer todine here, to talk about the proper steps for proving the private one. "

"Will that be difficult" asked Catherine, with natural anxiety. 

"No, --for if you remember, I had the precaution to get an examined copyof the register; otherwise, I own to you, I should have been alarmed. I don't know what has become of Smith. I heard some time since from hisfather that he had left the colony; and (I never told you before--itwould have made you uneasy) once, a few years ago, when my uncle againgot it into his head that we might be married, I was afraid poor Caleb'ssuccessor might, by chance, betray us. So I went over to A---- myself, being near it when I was staying with Lord C----, in order to see howfar it might be necessary to secure the parson; and, only think! I foundan accident had happened to the register--so, as the clergyman couldknow nothing, I kept my own counsel. How lucky I have the copy! Nodoubt the lawyer will set all to rights; and, while I am making thesettlements, I may as well make my will. I have plenty for both boys, but the dark one must be the heir. Does he not look born to be an eldestson?"

"Ah, Philip!"

"Pshaw! one don't die the sooner for making a will. Have I the air of aman in a consumption?"--and the sturdy sportsman glanced complacently atthe strength and symmetry of his manly limbs. "Come, Phil, let's go tothe stables. Now, Robert, I will show you what is better worth seeingthan those miserable flower-beds. " So saying, Mr. Beaufort led theway to the courtyard at the back of the cottage. Catherine and Sidneyremained on the lawn; the rest followed the host. The grooms, of whomBeaufort was the idol, hastened to show how well the horses had thrivenin his absence. 

"Do see how Brown Bess has come on, sir! but, to be sure, Master Philipkeeps her in exercise. Ah, sir, he will be as good a rider as yourhonour, one of these days. "

"He ought to be a better, Tom; for I think he'll never have my weight tocarry. Well, saddle Brown Bess for Mr. Philip. What horse shall I take?Ah! here's my old friend, Puppet!"

"I don't know what's come to Puppet, sir; he's off his feed, and turnedsulky. I tried him over the bar yesterday; but he was quite restivelike. "

"The devil he was! So, so, old boy, you shall go over the six-barredgate to-day, or we'll know why. " And Mr. Beaufort patted the sleek neckof his favourite hunter. "Put the saddle on him, Tom. "

"Yes, your honour. I sometimes think he is hurt in the loins somehow--hedon't take to his leaps kindly, and he always tries to bite when webridles him. Be quiet, sir!"

"Only his airs, " said Philip. "I did not know this, or I would havetaken him over the gate. Why did not you tell me, Tom?"

"Lord love you, sir! because you have such a spurret; and if anythinghad come to you--"

"Quite right: you are not weight enough for Puppet, my boy; and he neverdid like any one to back him but myself. What say you, brother, will youride with us?"

"No, I must go to ---- to-day with Arthur. I have engaged thepost-horses at two o'clock; but I shall be with you to-morrow or theday after. You see his tutor expects him; and as he is backward in hismathematics, he has no time to lose. "

"Well, then, good-bye, nephew!" and Beaufort slipped a pocket-bookinto the boy's hand. "Tush! whenever you want money, don't trouble yourfather--write to me--we shall be always glad to see you; and you mustteach Philip to like his book a little better--eh, Phil?"

"No, father; I shall be rich enough to do without books, " said Philip, rather coarsely; but then observing the heightened colour of his cousin, he went up to him, and with a generous impulse said, "Arthur, youadmired this gun; pray accept it. Nay, don't be shy--I can have as manyas I like for the asking: you're not so well off, you know. "

The intention was kind, but the manner was so patronising that Arthurfelt offended. He put back the gun, and said, drily, "I shall have nooccasion for the gun, thank you. "

If Arthur was offended by the offer, Philip was much more offended bythe refusal. "As you like; I hate pride, " said he; and he gave the gunto the groom as he vaulted into his saddle with the lightness of a youngMercury. "Come, father!"

Mr. Beaufort had now mounted his favourite hunter--a large, powerfulhorse well known for its prowess in the field. The rider trotted himonce or twice through the spacious yard. 

"Nonsense, Tom: no more hurt in the loins than I am. Open that gate;we will go across the paddock, and take the gate yonder--the oldsix-bar--eh, Phil?"

"Capital!--to be sure!--"

The gate was opened--the grooms stood watchful to see the leap, and akindred curiosity arrested Robert Beaufort and his son. 

How well they looked! those two horsemen; the ease, lightness, spiritof the one, with the fine-limbed and fiery steed that literally "boundedbeneath him as a barb"--seemingly as gay, as ardent, and as haughtyas the boyrider. And the manly, and almost herculean form of the elderBeaufort, which, from the buoyancy of its movements, and the supplegrace that belongs to the perfect mastership of any athletic art, possessed an elegance and dignity, especially on horseback, which rarelyaccompanies proportions equally sturdy and robust. There was indeedsomething knightly and chivalrous in the bearing of the elderBeaufort--in his handsome aquiline features, the erectness of his mien, the very wave of his hand, as he spurred from the yard. 

"What a fine-looking fellow my uncle is!" said Arthur, with involuntaryadmiration. 

"Ay, an excellent life--amazingly strong!" returned the pale father, with a slight sigh. 

"Philip, " said Mr. Beaufort, as they cantered across the paddock, "Ithink the gate is too much for you. I will just take Puppet over, andthen we will open it for you. "

"Pooh, my dear father! you don't know how I'm improved!" And slackeningthe rein, and touching the side of his horse, the young rider dartedforward and cleared the gate, which was of no common height, with anease that extorted a loud "bravo" from the proud father. 

"Now, Puppet, " said Mr. Beaufort, spurring his own horse. The animalcantered towards the gate, and then suddenly turned round with animpatient and angry snort. "For shame, Puppet!--for shame, old boy!"said the sportsman, wheeling him again to the barrier. The horse shookhis head, as if in remonstrance; but the spur vigorously applied showedhim that his master would not listen to his mute reasonings. He boundedforward--made at the gate--struck his hoofs against the top bar--fellforward, and threw his rider head foremost on the road beyond. Thehorse rose instantly--not so the master. The son dismounted, alarmed andterrified. His father was speechless! and blood gushed from the mouthand nostrils, as the head drooped heavily on the boy's breast. Thebystanders had witnessed the fall--they crowded to the spot--they tookthe fallen man from the weak arms of the son--the head groom examinedhim with the eye of one who had picked up science from his experience insuch casualties. 

"Speak, brother!--where are you hurt?" exclaimed Robert Beaufort. 

"He will never speak more!" said the groom, bursting into tears. "Hisneck is broken!"

"Send for the nearest surgeon, " cried Mr. Robert. "Good God! boy! don'tmount that devilish horse!"

But Arthur had already leaped on the unhappy steed, which had been thecause of this appalling affliction. "Which way?"

"Straight on to ----, only two miles--every one knows Mr. Powis's house. God bless you!" said the groom. Arthur vanished. 

"Lift him carefully, and take him to the house, " said Mr. Robert. "Mypoor brother! my dear brother!"

He was interrupted by a cry, a single shrill, heartbreaking cry; andPhilip fell senseless to the ground. 

No one heeded him at that hour--no one heeded the fatherless BASTARD. "Gently, gently, " said Mr. Robert, as he followed the servants and theirload. And he then muttered to himself, and his sallow cheek grew bright, and his breath came short: "He has made no will--he never made a will. "

CHAPTER V. 

 "Constance. O boy, then where art thou? * * * * What becomes of me"--King John. 

It was three days after the death of Philip Beaufort--for the surgeonarrived only to confirm the judgment of the groom: in the drawing-roomof the cottage, the windows closed, lay the body, in its coffin, thelid not yet nailed down. There, prostrate on the floor, tearless, speechless, was the miserable Catherine; poor Sidney, too young tocomprehend all his loss, sobbing at her side; while Philip apart, seatedbeside the coffin, gazed abstractedly on that cold rigid face which hadnever known one frown for his boyish follies. 

In another room, that had been appropriated to the late owner, calledhis study, sat Robert Beaufort. Everything in this room spoke ofthe deceased. Partially separated from the rest of the house, itcommunicated by a winding staircase with a chamber above, to whichPhilip had been wont to betake himself whenever he returned late, andover-exhilarated, from some rural feast crowning a hard day's hunt. Above a quaint, old-fashioned bureau of Dutch workmanship (which Philiphad picked up at a sale in the earlier years of his marriage) was aportrait of Catherine taken in the bloom of her youth. On a peg on thedoor that led to the staircase, still hung his rough driving coat. Thewindow commanded the view of the paddock in which the worn-out hunteror the unbroken colt grazed at will. Around the walls of the "study"--(astrange misnomer!)--hung prints of celebrated fox-hunts and renownedsteeple-chases: guns, fishing-rods, and foxes' brushes, ranged with asportsman's neatness, supplied the place of books. On the mantelpiecelay a cigar-case, a well-worn volume on the Veterinary Art, and the lastnumber of the Sporting Magazine. And in the room--thus witnessing of thehardy, masculine, rural life, that had passed away--sallow, stooping, town-worn, sat, I say, Robert Beaufort, the heir-at-law, --alone: for thevery day of the death he had remanded his son home with the letter thatannounced to his wife the change in their fortunes, and directed her tosend his lawyer post-haste to the house of death. The bureau, and thedrawers, and the boxes which contained the papers of the deceased wereopen; their contents had been ransacked; no certificate of the privatemarriage, no hint of such an event; not a paper found to signify thelast wishes of the rich dead man. 

He had died, and made no sign. Mr. Robert Beaufort's countenance wasstill and composed. 

A knock at the door was heard; the lawyer entered. 

"Sir, the undertakers are here, and Mr. Greaves has ordered the bells tobe rung: at three o'clock he will read the service. "

"I am obliged to you. , Blackwell, for taking these melancholy offices onyourself. My poor brother!--it is so sudden! But the funeral, you say, ought to take place to-day?"

"The weather is so warm, " said the lawyer, wiping his forehead. As hespoke, the death-bell was heard. 

There was a pause. 

"It would have been a terrible shock to Mrs. Morton if she had been hiswife, " observed Mr. Blackwell. "But I suppose persons of that kind havevery little feeling. I must say that it was fortunate for the familythat the event happened before Mr. Beaufort was wheedled into soimproper a marriage. "

"It was fortunate, Blackwell. Have you ordered the post-horses? I shallstart immediately after the funeral. "

"What is to be done with the cottage, sir?"

"You may advertise it for sale. "

"And Mrs. Morton and the boys?" "Hum! we will consider. She was atradesman's daughter. I think I ought to provide for her suitably, eh?"

"It is more than the world could expect from you, sir; it is verydifferent from a wife. "

"Oh, very!--very much so, indeed! Just ring for a lighted candle, wewill seal up these boxes. And--I think I could take a sandwich. PoorPhilip!"

The funeral was over; the dead shovelled away. What a strange thing itdoes seem, that that very form which we prized so charily, for whichwe prayed the winds to be gentle, which we lapped from the cold inour arms, from whose footstep we would have removed a stone, should besuddenly thrust out of sight--an abomination that the earth mustnot look upon--a despicable loathsomeness, to be concealed and tobe forgotten! And this same composition of bone and muscle that wasyesterday so strong--which men respected, and women loved, and childrenclung to--to-day so lamentably powerless, unable to defend or protectthose who lay nearest to its heart; its riches wrested from it, itswishes spat upon, its influence expiring with its last sigh! A breathfrom its lips making all that mighty difference between what it was andwhat it is!

The post-horses were at the door as the funeral procession returned tothe house. 

Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. Morton, and said, with hispocket-handkerchief still before his eyes:

"I will write to you in a few days, ma'am; you will find that I shallnot forget you. The cottage will be sold; but we sha'n't hurry you. Good-bye, ma'am; good-bye, my boys;" and he patted his nephews on thehead. 

Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his uncle, who mutteredto himself, "That boy will come to no good!" Little Sidney put his handinto the rich man's, and looked up, pleadingly, into his face. "Can'tyou say something pleasant to poor mamma, Uncle Robert?"

Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskily, and entered the britska--it had been hisbrother's: the lawyer followed, and they drove away. 

A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the house into theconservatory, to gather some fruit for his mother; she had scarcelytouched food since Beaufort's death. She was worn to a shadow; herhair had turned grey. Now she had at last found tears, and she weptnoiselessly but unceasingly. 

The boy had plucked some grapes, and placed them carefully in hisbasket: he was about to select a nectarine that seemed riper than therest, when his hand was roughly seized; and the gruff voice of JohnGreen, the gardener, exclaimed:

"What are you about, Master Philip? you must not touch them 'ere fruit!"

"How dare you, fellow!" cried the young gentleman, in a tone of equalastonishment and, wrath. 

"None of your airs, Master Philip! What I means is, that some greatfolks are coming too look at the place tomorrow; and I won't have myshow of fruit spoiled by being pawed about by the like of you; so, that's plain, Master Philip!"

The boy grew very pale, but remained silent. The gardener, delighted toretaliate the insolence he had received, continued:

"You need not go for to look so spiteful, master; you are not the greatman you thought you were; you are nobody now, and so you will find erelong. So, march out, if you please: I wants to lock up the glass. "

As he spoke, he took the lad roughly by the arm; but Philip, the mostirascible of mortals, was strong for his years, and fearless as a younglion. He caught up a watering-pot, which the gardener had depositedwhile he expostulated with his late tyrant and struck the man across theface with it so violently and so suddenly, that he fell back over thebeds, and the glass crackled and shivered under him. Philip did not waitfor the foe to recover his equilibrium; but, taking up his grapes, andpossessing himself quietly of the disputed nectarine, quitted the spot;and the gardener did not think it prudent to pursue him. To boys, underordinary circumstances--boys who have buffeted their way through ascolding nursery, a wrangling family, or a public school--there wouldhave been nothing in this squabble to dwell on the memory or vibrate onthe nerves, after the first burst of passion: but to Philip Beaufort itwas an era in life; it was the first insult he had ever received; it washis initiation into that changed, rough, and terrible career, to whichthe spoiled darling of vanity and love was henceforth condemned. Hispride and his self-esteem had incurred a fearful shock. He entered thehouse, and a sickness came over him; his limbs trembled; he sat down inthe hall, and, placing the fruit beside him, covered his face with hishands and wept. Those were not the tears of a boy, drawn from a shallowsource; they were the burning, agonising, reluctant tears, that menshed, wrung from the heart as if it were its blood. He had never beensent to school, lest he should meet with mortification. He had hadvarious tutors, trained to show, rather than to exact, respect; onesucceeding another, at his own whim and caprice. His natural quickness, and a very strong, hard, inquisitive turn of mind, had enabledhim, however, to pick up more knowledge, though of a desultory andmiscellaneous nature, than boys of his age generally possess; and hisroving, independent, out-of-door existence had served to ripen hisunderstanding. He had certainly, in spite of every precaution, arrivedat some, though not very distinct, notion of his peculiar position; butnone of its inconveniences had visited him till that day. He begannow to turn his eyes to the future; and vague and dark forebodings--aconsciousness of the shelter, the protector, the station, he had lostin his father's death--crept coldly, over him. While thus musing, a ringwas heard at the bell; he lifted his head; it was the postman with aletter. Philip hastily rose, and, averting his face, on which the tearswere not dried, took the letter; and then, snatching up his littlebasket of fruit, repaired to his mother's room. 

The shutters were half closed on the bright day--oh, what a mockery isthere in the smile of the happy sun when it shines on the wretched! Mrs. Morton sat, or rather crouched, in a distant corner; her streaming eyesfixed on vacancy; listless, drooping; a very image of desolate woe; andSidney was weaving flower-chains at her feet. 

"Mamma!--mother!" whispered Philip, as he threw his arms round her neck;"look up! look up!-my heart breaks to see you. Do taste this fruit: youwill die too, if you go on thus; and what will become of us--of Sidney?"

Mrs. Morton did look up vaguely into his face, and strove to smile. 

"See, too, I have brought you a letter; perhaps good news; shall I breakthe seal?"

Mrs. Morton shook her head gently, and took the letter--alas! howdifferent from that one which Sidney had placed in her hands nottwo short weeks since--it was Mr. Robert Beaufort's handwriting. Sheshuddered, and laid it down. And then there suddenly, and for the firsttime, flashed across her the sense of her strange position--the dread ofthe future. What were her sons to be henceforth?

What herself? Whatever the sanctity of her marriage, the law might failher. At the disposition of Mr. Robert Beaufort the fate of three livesmight depend. She gasped for breath; again took up the letter; andhurried over the contents: they ran thus:

"DEAR, MADAM, --Knowing that you must naturally be anxious as to thefuture prospects of your children and yourself, left by my poor brotherdestitute of all provision, I take the earliest opportunity which itseems to me that propriety and decorum allow, to apprise you of myintentions. I need not say that, properly speaking, you can have no kindof claim upon the relations of my late brother; nor will I hurt yourfeelings by those moral reflections which at this season of sorrowcannot, I hope, fail involuntarily to force themselves upon you. Without more than this mere allusion to your peculiar connection with mybrother, I may, however, be permitted to add that that connection tendedvery materially to separate him from the legitimate branches of hisfamily; and in consulting with them as to a provision for you and yourchildren, I find that, besides scruples that are to be respected, somenatural degree of soreness exists upon their minds. Out of regard, however, to my poor brother (though I saw very little of him of lateyears), I am willing to waive those feelings which, as a father and ahusband, you may conceive that I share with the rest of my family. Youwill probably now decide on living with some of your own relations; andthat you may not be entirely a burden to them, I beg to say that I shallallow you a hundred a year; paid, if you prefer it, quarterly. You mayalso select such articles of linen and plate as you require for your ownuse. With regard to your sons, I have no objection to place them at agrammar-school, and, at a proper age, to apprentice them to any tradesuitable to their future station, in the choice of which your own familycan give you the best advice. If they conduct themselves properly, they may always depend on my protection. I do not wish to hurry yourmovements; but it will probably be painful to you to remain longer thanyou can help in a place crowded with unpleasant recollections; and asthe cottage is to be sold--indeed, my brother-in-law, Lord Lilburne, thinks it would suit him--you will be liable to the interruption ofstrangers to see it; and your prolonged residence at Fernside, you mustbe sensible, is rather an obstacle to the sale. I beg to inclose you adraft for L100. To pay any present expenses; and to request, when youare settled, to know where the first quarter shall be paid. 

"I shall write to Mr. Jackson (who, I think, is the bailiff) to detailmy instructions as to selling the crops, &c. , and discharging theservants; so that you may have no further trouble. 

 "I am, Madam, "Your obedient Servant, "ROBERT BEAUFORT. "Berkeley Square, September 12th, 18--. "

The letter fell from Catherine's hands. Her grief was changed toindignation and scorn. 

"The insolent!" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. "This to me!--tome--the wife, the lawful wife of his brother! the wedded mother of hisbrother's children!"

"Say that again, mother! again--again!" cried Philip, in a loud voice. "His wife--wedded!"

"I swear it, " said Catherine, solemnly. "I kept the secret for yourfather's sake. Now for yours, the truth must be proclaimed. "

"Thank God! thank God!" murmured Philip, in a quivering voice, throwinghis arms round his brother, "We have no brand on our names, Sidney. "

At those accents, so full of suppressed joy and pride, the mother feltat once all that her son had suspected and concealed. She felt thatbeneath his haughty and wayward character there had lurked delicate andgenerous forbearance for her; that from his equivocal position his veryfaults might have arisen; and a pang of remorse for her long sacrificeof the children to the father shot through her heart. It was followedby a fear, an appalling fear, more painful than the remorse. The proofsthat were to clear herself and them! The words of her husband, that lastawful morning, rang in her ear. The minister dead; the witness absent;the register lost! But the copy of that register!--the copy! might notthat suffice? She groaned, and closed her eyes as if to shut out thefuture: then starting up, she hurried from the room, and went straightto Beaufort's study. As she laid her hand on the latch of the door, shetrembled and drew back. But care for the living was stronger at thatmoment than even anguish for the dead: she entered the apartment; shepassed with a firm step to the bureau. It was locked; Robert Beaufort'sseal upon the lock:--on every cupboard, every box, every drawer, thesame seal that spoke of rights more valued than her own. But Catherinewas not daunted: she turned and saw Philip by her side; she pointed tothe bureau in silence; the boy understood the appeal. He left theroom, and returned in a few moments with a chisel. The lock was broken:tremblingly and eagerly Catherine ransacked the contents; opened paperafter paper, letter after letter, in vain: no certificate, no will, no memorial. Could the brother have abstracted the fatal proof? A wordsufficed to explain to Philip what she sought for; and his search wasmore minute than hers. Every possible receptacle for papers in thatroom, in the whole house, was explored, and still the search wasfruitless. 

Three hours afterwards they were in the same room in which Philip hadbrought 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 decidefor us all. She paused, and examined his face as he read. He felt hereye was upon him, and restrained his emotions as he proceeded. When hehad done, he lifted his dark gaze upon Catherine's watchful countenance. 

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

"Philip! Philip! you are indeed my son; your father's son! And have youno reproach for your mother, who so weakly, so criminally, concealedyour 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 understandwhat, in the world's eye, I am; what you are?"

"I do!" said Philip, firmly; and he fell on his knees at her feet. "Whatever others call you, you are a mother, and I your son. You are, inthe 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 wedo right to refuse him even this pittance? Must he be a beggar too?"

"Never beggar, " said Philip, with a pride that showed what hard lessonshe had yet to learn. "The lawful sons of a Beaufort were not born to begtheir 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 worthyman. He had never committed any excess--never gambled nor incurreddebt--nor fallen into the warm errors most common with his sex. He wasa good husband--a careful father--an agreeable neighbour--rathercharitable than otherwise, to the poor. He was honest and methodicalin his dealings, and had been known to behave handsomely in differentrelations of life. Mr. Robert Beaufort, indeed, always meant to do whatwas right--in the eyes of the world! He had no other rule of action butthat which the world supplied; his religion was decorum--his sense ofhonour was regard to opinion. His heart was a dial to which the worldwas the sun: when the great eye of the public fell on it, it answeredevery purpose that a heart could answer; but when that eye wasinvisible, the dial was mute--a piece of brass and nothing more. 

It is just to Robert Beaufort to assure the reader that he whollydisbelieved his brother's story of a private marriage. He consideredthat tale, when heard for the first time, as the mere invention (and ashallow one) of a man wishing to make the imprudent step he was about totake as respectable as he could. The careless tone of his brother whenspeaking upon the subject--his confession that of such a marriage therewere no distinct proofs, except a copy of a register (which copy Roberthad not found)--made his incredulity natural. He therefore deemedhimself under no obligation of delicacy or respect, to a woman throughwhose means he had very nearly lost a noble succession--a woman who hadnot 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 anddependence to have been the same, would have behaved with carefuland scrupulous generosity. The world would have said, "Nothing can behandsomer than Mr. Robert Beaufort's conduct!" Nay, if Mrs. Morton hadbeen some divorced wife of birth and connections, he would have madevery different dispositions in her favour: he would not have allowed theconnections to call him shabby. But here he felt that, all circumstancesconsidered, the world, if it spoke at all (which it would scarce thinkit 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 carelessparamour into marriage; what could be expected from the man she hadsought to injure--the rightful heir? Was it not very good in him to doanything for her, and, if he provided for the children suitably to theoriginal station of the mother, did he not go to the very utmost ofreasonable expectation? He certainly thought in his conscience, such asit was, that he had acted well--not extravagantly, not foolishly; butwell. He was sure the world would say so if it knew all: he was notbound to do anything. He was not, therefore, prepared for Catherine'sshort, haughty, but temperate reply to his letter: a reply whichconveyed a decided refusal of his offers--asserted positively herown marriage, and the claims of her children--intimated legalproceedings--and was signed in the name of Catherine Beaufort. Mr. Beaufort put the letter in his bureau, labelled, "Impertinent answerfrom Mrs. Morton, Sept. 14, " and was quite contented to forget theexistence of the writer, until his lawyer, Mr. Blackwell, informed himthat 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 extortmoney: the attorney is a low practitioner, accustomed to get up badcases: they can make nothing of it. "

This was true: whatever the rights of the case, poor Catherine had noproofs--no evidence--which could justify a respectable lawyer to adviseher proceeding to a suit. She named two witnesses of her marriage--onedead, the other could not be heard of. She selected for the allegedplace in which the ceremony was performed a very remote village, inwhich it appeared that the register had been destroyed. No attested copythereof 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 thatwhen Philip, many years ago, had received a copy, he had not shown it toCatherine, nor mentioned Mr. Jones's name as the copyist. In fact, thenonly three years married to Catherine, his worldly caution had not yetbeen conquered by confident experience of her generosity. As for themere moral evidence dependent on the publication of her bans in London, that amounted to no proof whatever; nor, on inquiry at A----, did theWelsh villagers remember anything further than that, some fifteen yearsago, a handsome gentleman had visited Mr. Price, and one or two ratherthought that Mr. Price had married him to a lady from London; evidencequite inadmissible against the deadly, damning fact, that, for fifteenyears, Catherine had openly borne another name, and lived with Mr. Beaufort ostensibly as his mistress. Her generosity in this destroyedher case. Nevertheless, she found a low practitioner, who took hermoney and neglected her cause; so her suit was heard and dismissedwith contempt. Henceforth, then, indeed, in the eyes of the law and thepublic, Catherine was an impudent adventurer, and her sons were namelessoutcasts. 

And now relieved from all fear, Mr. Robert Beaufort entered upon thefull enjoyment of his splendid fortune. 

The house in Berkeley Square was furnished anew. Great dinners and gayrouts were given in the ensuing spring. Mr. And Mrs. Beaufort becamepersons of considerable importance. The rich man had, even when poor, been ambitious; his ambition now centred in his only son. Arthur hadalways been considered a boy of talents and promise; to what might henot 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 tohis father, Arthur spoke to him of the Mortons. "What has become ofthem, sir? and what have you done for them?"

"Done for them!" said Mr. Beaufort, opening his eyes. "What should I dofor persons who have just been harassing me with the most unprincipledlitigation? My conduct to them has been too generous: that is, allthings considered. But when you are my age you will find there is verylittle 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 believethey want for nothing: I fancy they are with the mother's relations. Whenever they address me in a proper manner they shall not find merevengeful or hardhearted; but, since we are on this topic, " continuedthe father smoothing his shirt-frill with a care that showed his decorumeven 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 letus 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 gaugesother men's conduct by its own sentiments, believed that his father, who had never been niggardly to himself, had really acted as his wordsimplied; and, engrossed by the pursuits of the new and brilliant careeropened, whether to his pleasures or his studies, suffered the objects ofhis inquiries to pass from his thoughts. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Morton, for by that name we must still call her, and herchildren, were settled in a small lodging in a humble suburb; situatedon the high road between Fernside and the metropolis. She saved fromher hopeless law-suit, after the sale of her jewels and ornaments, asufficient sum to enable her, with economy, to live respectably for ayear or two at least, during which time she might arrange her plans forthe future. She reckoned, as a sure resource, upon the assistance of herrelations; but it was one to which she applied with natural shame andreluctance. She had kept up a correspondence with her father during hislife. To him, she never revealed the secret of her marriage, though shedid not write like a person conscious of error. Perhaps, as she alwayssaid to her son, she had made to her husband a solemn promise never todivulge or even hint that secret until he himself should authorise itsdisclosure. For neither he nor Catherine ever contemplated separationor death. Alas! how all of us, when happy, sleep secure in the darkshadows, which ought to warn us of the sorrows that are to come! StillCatherine's father, a man of coarse mind and not rigid principles, didnot take much to heart that connection which he assumed to be illicit. She was provided for, that was some comfort: doubtless Mr. Beaufortwould act like a gentleman, perhaps at last make her an honest woman anda lady. Meanwhile, she had a fine house, and a fine carriage, and fineservants; and so far from applying to him for money, was constantlysending him little presents. But Catherine only saw, in his permissionof her correspondence, kind, forgiving, and trustful affection, and sheloved him tenderly: when he died, the link that bound her to her familywas broken. Her brother succeeded to the trade; a man of probity andhonour, but somewhat hard and unamiable. In the only letter she hadreceived from him--the one announcing her father's death--he told herplainly, and very properly, that he could not countenance the life sheled; that he had children growing up--that all intercourse between themwas at an end, unless she left Mr. Beaufort; when, if she sincerelyrepented, 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 principlefrom which it emanated. Her brother was well off for his station--shewould 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 poorchildren. 

But this step she did not take till a considerable portion of herpittance was consumed--till nearly three parts of a year sinceBeaufort's death had expired--and till sundry warnings, not to belightly heeded, had made her forebode the probability of an early deathfor 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 inextravagance, but in an easy luxury, which had not brought with ithabits of economy and thrift. She could grudge anything to herself, butto her children--his children, whose every whim had been anticipated, she had not the heart to be saving. She could have starved in a garrethad she been alone; but she could not see them wanting a comfortwhile she possessed a guinea. Philip, to do him justice, evinced aconsideration not to have been expected from his early and arrogantrecklessness. But Sidney, who could expect consideration from such achild? What could he know of the change of circumstances--of the valueof money? Did he seem dejected, Catherine would steal out and spend aweek's income on the lapful of toys which she brought home. Did he seema shade more pale--did he complain of the slightest ailment, a doctormust be sent for. Alas! her own ailments, neglected and unheeded, weregrowing beyond the reach of medicine. Anxious fearful--gnawed by regretfor the past--the thought of famine in the future--she daily frettedand wore herself away. She had cultivated her mind during her secludedresidence with Mr. Beaufort, but she had learned none of the arts bywhich decayed gentlewomen keep the wolf from the door; no little holidayaccomplishments, which, in the day of need turn to useful trade; nowater-colour drawings, no paintings on velvet, no fabrications of prettygewgaws, no embroidery and fine needlework. She was helpless--utterlyhelpless; if she had resigned herself to the thought of service, shewould not have had the physical strength for a place of drudgery, andwhere could she have found the testimonials necessary for a place oftrust? A great change, at this time, was apparent in Philip. Had hefallen, then, into kind hands, and under guiding eyes, his passions andenergies might have ripened into rare qualities and great virtues. Butperhaps as Goethe has somewhere said, "Experience, after all, is thebest teacher. " He kept a constant guard on his vehement temper--hiswayward 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), inproportion as he became more amiable, it seemed that his mother lovedhim less. Perhaps she did not, in that change, recognise so closely thedarling of the old time; perhaps the very weaknesses and importunitiesof Sidney, the hourly sacrifices the child entailed upon her, endearedthe younger son more to her from that natural sense of dependence andprotection which forms the great bond between mother and child; perhapstoo, as Philip had been one to inspire as much pride as affection, sothe pride faded away with the expectations that had fed it, and carriedoff in its decay some of the affection that was intertwined with it. However this be, Philip had formerly appeared the more spoiled andfavoured of the two: and now Sidney seemed all in all. Thus, beneath theyounger son's caressing gentleness, there grew up a certain regard forself; it was latent, it took amiable colours; it had even a certaincharm and grace in so sweet a child, but selfishness it was not theless. In this he differed from his brother. Philip was self-willed:Sidney self-loving. A certain timidity of character, endearing perhapsto the anxious heart of a mother, made this fault in the younger boymore likely to take root. For, in bold natures, there is a lavish anduncalculating recklessness which scorns self unconsciously and thoughthere is a fear which arises from a loving heart, and is but sympathyfor others--the fear which belongs to a timid character is butegotism--but, when physical, the regard for one's own person: whenmoral, the anxiety for one's own interests. 

It was in a small room in a lodging-house in the suburb of H---- thatMrs. Morton was seated by the window, nervously awaiting the knockof the postman, who was expected to bring her brother's reply to herletter. It was therefore between ten and eleven o'clock--a morning inthe merry month of June. It was hot and sultry, which is rare in anEnglish June. A flytrap, red, white, and yellow, suspended from theceiling, swarmed with flies; flies were on the ceiling, flies buzzed atthe windows; the sofa and chairs of horsehair seemed stuffed withflies. There was an air of heated discomfort in the thick, solid moreencurtains, in the gaudy paper, in the bright-staring carpet, in thevery looking-glass over the chimney-piece, where a strip of mirror layimprisoned in an embrace of frame covered with yellow muslin. We maytalk of the dreariness of winter; and winter, no doubt, is desolate: butwhat in the world is more dreary to eyes inured to the verdure and bloomof Nature--, "The pomp of groves and garniture of fields, "--than a close room in a suburban lodging-house; the sun piercing everycorner; 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 thepictures out of a story-book, which his mother had bought him the daybefore. Philip, who, of late, had taken much to rambling about thestreets--it may be, in hopes of meeting one of those benevolent, eccentric, elderly gentlemen, he had read of in old novels, who suddenlycome to the relief of distressed virtue; or, more probably, from therestlessness that belonged to his adventurous temperament;--Philip hadleft the house since breakfast. 

"Oh! how hot this nasty room is!" exclaimed Sidney, abruptly, lookingup 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 anotherpony? It would be so nice, this fine weather!"

"Ah! my dear, I wish I could afford it: but you shall have a ride thisweek! Yes, " continued the mother, as if reasoning with herself, inexcuse of the extravagance, "he does not look well: poor child! he musthave exercise. "

"A ride!--oh! that is my own kind mamma!" exclaimed Sidney, clappinghis 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 veryunkind in him, for I don't care if he has a pony, too, --only not thewhite one. "

Here the postman's knock, loud and sudden, started Mrs. Morton from herseat. 

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 anticipatethe 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 thewindow, and, after a short, impatient sigh, resumed the scissors and thestory-book. I do not apologise to the reader for the various letters Iam obliged to lay before him; for character often betrays itself morein letters than in speech. Mr. Roger Morton's reply was couched in theseterms, --

"DEAR CATHERINE, I have received your letter of the 14th inst. , andwrite per return. I am very much grieved to hear of your afflictions;but, whatever you say, I cannot think the late Mr. Beaufort acted likea conscientious man, in forgetting to make his will, and leaving hislittle 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 uponme, who have a large family of my own, and get my livelihood by honestindustry, to have a rich gentleman's children to maintain. As for yourstory about the private marriage, it may or not be. Perhaps you weretaken 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 yousay on the matter the better. It all comes to the same thing. People arenot bound to believe what can't be proved. And even if what you say istrue, you are more to be blamed than pitied for holding your tongue somany years, and discrediting an honest family, as ours has always beenconsidered. I am sure my wife would not have thought of such a thing forthe finest gentleman that ever wore shoe-leather. However, I don't wantto hurt your feelings; and I am sure I am ready to do whatever is rightand proper. You cannot expect that I should ask you to my house. Mywife, you know, is a very religious woman--what is called evangelical;but that's neither here nor there: I deal with all people, churchmen anddissenters--even Jews, --and don't trouble my head much about differencesin opinion. I dare say there are many ways to heaven; as I said, theother day, to Mr. Thwaites, our member. But it is right to say my wifewill not hear of your coming here; and, indeed, it might do harm tomy business, for there are several elderly single gentlewomen, who buyflannel for the poor at my shop, and they are very particular; as theyought to be, indeed: for morals are very strict in this county, and particularly in this town, where we certainly do pay very highchurch-rates. Not that I grumble; for, though I am as liberal as anyman, I am for an established church; as I ought to be, since the deanis my best customer. With regard to yourself I inclose you L10. , and youwill let me know when it is gone, and I will see what more I can do. Yousay you are very poorly, which I am sorry to hear; but you must pluckup your spirits, and take in plain work; and I really think you oughtto apply to Mr. Robert Beaufort. He bears a high character; andnotwithstanding your lawsuit, which I cannot approve of, I dare say hemight allow you L40. Or L50. A-year, if you apply properly, which wouldbe 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 punishedfor no fault of their own; and my wife, who, though strict, is agood-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. Ican get him a very good thing in a light genteel way. My wife's brother, Mr. Christopher Plaskwith, is a bookseller and stationer with prettypractice, in R----. He is a clever man, and has a newspaper, which hekindly sends me every week; and, though it is not my county, it has somevery sensible views and is often noticed in the London papers, as 'ourprovincial contemporary. '--Mr. Plaskwith owes me some money, which Iadvanced him when he set up the paper; and he has several times mosthonestly offered to pay me, in shares in the said paper. But, as thething might break, and I don't like concerns I don't understand, I havenot taken advantage of his very handsome proposals. Now, Plaskwith wroteme word, two days ago, that he wanted a genteel, smart lad, as assistantand 'prentice, and offered to take my eldest boy; but we can't sparehim. I write to Christopher by this post; and if your youth will rundown on the top of the coach, and inquire for Mr. Plaskwith--the fare istrifling--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 thepremium against his debt to me; so you will have nothing to pay. 'Tis avery pretty business; and the lad's education will get him on; so that'soff your mind. As to the little chap, I'll take him at once. You say heis a pretty boy; and a pretty boy is always a help in a linendraper'sshop. He shall share and share with my own young folks; and Mrs. Mortonwill 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 caneasily break him into, he is settled for life. So now you have got ridof two mouths to feed, and have nobody to think of but yourself, whichmust be a great comfort. Don't forget to write to Mr. Beaufort; and ifhe don't do something for you he's not the gentleman I take him for; butyou are my own flesh and blood, and sha'n't starve; for, though I don'tthink it right in a man in business to encourage what's wrong, yet, whena person's down in the world, I think an ounce of hell is better than apound of preaching. My wife thinks otherwise, and wants to send you sometracts; but every body can't be as correct as some folks. However, asI said before, that's neither here nor there. Let me know when your boycomes 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 morecomfortable; and remain, "Dear Catherine, "Your forgiving and affectionate brother, "ROGER MORTON. "High Street, N----, June 13. "

"P. S. --Mrs. M. Says that she will be a mother to your little boy, andthat you had better mend up all his linen before you send him. "

As Catherine finished this epistle, she lifted her eyes and beheldPhilip. He had entered noiselessly, and he remained silent, leaningagainst the wall, and watching the face of his mother, which crimsonedwith painful humiliation while she read. Philip was not now the trimand dainty stripling first introduced to the reader. He had outgrown hisfaded suit of funereal mourning; his long-neglected hair hung elf-likeand matted down his cheeks; there was a gloomy look in his bright darkeyes. Poverty never betrays itself more than in the features and form ofPride. It was evident that his spirit endured, rather than accommodateditself to, his fallen state; and, notwithstanding his soiled andthreadbare garments, and a haggardness that ill becomes the years ofpalmy youth, there was about his whole mien and person a wild and savagegrandeur more impressive than his former ruffling arrogance of manner. 

"Well, mother, " said he, with a strange mixture of sternness in hiscountenance and pity in his voice; "well, mother, and what says yourbrother?"

"You decided for us once before, decide again. But I need not ask you;you would never--"

"I don't know, " interrupted Philip, vaguely; "let me see what we are todecide on. "

Mrs. Morton was naturally a woman of high courage and spirit, butsickness and grief had worn down both; and though Philip was butsixteen, there is something in the very nature of woman--especially introuble--which makes her seek to lean on some other will than her own. She gave Philip the letter, and went quietly to sit down by Sidney. 

"Your brother means well, " said Philip, when he had concluded theepistle. 

"Yes, but nothing is to be done; I cannot, cannot send poor Sidneyto--to--" and Mrs. Morton sobbed. 

"No, my dear, dear mother, no; it would be terrible, indeed, to partyou and him. But this bookseller--Plaskwith--perhaps I shall be able tosupport you both. "

"Why, you do not think, Philip, of being an apprentice!--you, who havebeen so brought up--you, who are so proud!"

"Mother, I would sweep the crossings for your sake I Mother, foryour sake I would go to my uncle Beaufort with my hat in my hand, forhalfpence. Mother, I am not proud--I would be honest, if I can--but whenI see you pining away, and so changed, the devil comes into me, and Ioften shudder lest I should commit some crime--what, I don't know!"

"Come here, Philip--my own Philip--my son, my hope, my firstborn!"--andthe mother's heart gushed forth in all the fondness of early days. "Don't speak so terribly, you frighten me!"

She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him soothingly. He laidhis burning temples on her bosom, and nestled himself to her, as hehad been wont to do, after some stormy paroxysm of his passionate andwayward infancy. So there they remained--their lips silent, their heartsspeaking to each other--each from each taking strange succour and holystrength--till Philip rose, calm, and with a quiet smile, "Good-bye, mother; I will go at once to Mr. Plaskwith. "

"But you have no money for the coach-fare; here, Philip, " and sheplaced her purse in his hand, from which he reluctantly selected a fewshillings. "And mind, if the man is rude and you dislike him--mind, youmust not subject yourself to insolence and mortification. "

"Oh, all will go well, don't fear, " said Philip, cheerfully, and he leftthe house. 

Towards evening he had reached his destination. The shop was ofgoodly exterior, with a private entrance; over the shop was written, "Christopher Plaskwith, Bookseller and Stationer:" on the private doora brass plate, inscribed with "R---- and ---- Mercury Office, Mr. Plaskwith. " Philip applied at the private entrance, and was shown bya "neat-handed Phillis" into a small office-room. In a few minutes thedoor opened, and the bookseller entered. 

Mr. Christopher Plaskwith was a short, stout man, in drab-colouredbreeches, and gaiters to match; a black coat and waistcoat; he wore alarge watch-chain, with a prodigious bunch of seals, alternated bysmall keys and old-fashioned mourning-rings. His complexion was paleand sodden, and his hair short, dark, and sleek. The bookseller valuedhimself on a likeness to Buonaparte; and affected a short, brusque, peremptory manner, which he meant to be the indication of the vigorousand decisive character of his prototype. 

"So you are the young gentleman Mr. Roger Morton recommends?" Here Mr. Plaskwith took out a huge pocketbook, slowly unclasped it, staring hardat Philip, with what he designed for a piercing and penetrative survey. 

"This is the letter--no! this is Sir Thomas Champerdown's order forfifty copies of the last Mercury, containing his speech at the countymeeting. Your age, young man?--only sixteen?--look older;--that's notit--that's not it--and this is it!--sit down. Yes, Mr. RogerMorton recommends you--a relation--unfortunate circumstances--welleducated--hum! Well, young man, what have you to say for yourself?"

"Sir?"

"Can you cast accounts?--know bookkeeping?"

"I know something of algebra, sir. "

"Algebra!--oh, what else?"

"French and Latin. "

"Hum!--may be useful. Why do you wear your hair so long?--look at mine. What's your name?"

"Philip Morton. "

"Mr. Philip Morton, you have an intelligent countenance--I go a greatdeal by countenances. You know the terms?--most favourable to you. Nopremium--I settle that with Roger. I give board and bed--find your ownwashing. Habits regular--'prenticeship only five years; when over, mustnot set up in the same town. I will see to the indentures. When can youcome?"

"When you please, sir. "

"Day after to-morrow, by six o'clock coach. "

"But, sir, " said Philip, "will there be no salary? something, ever sosmall, that I could send to my another?"

"Salary, at sixteen?--board and bed-no premium! Salary, what for?'Prentices have no salary!--you will have every comfort. "

"Give me less comfort, that I may give my mother more;--a little money, ever so little, and take it out of my board: I can do with one meal aday, sir. "

The bookseller was moved: he took a huge pinch of snuff out of hiswaistcoat pocket, and mused a moment. He then said, as he re-examinedPhilip:

"Well, young man, I'll tell you what we will do. You shall comehere first upon trial;--see if we like each other before we sign theindentures; allow you, meanwhile, five shillings a week. If you showtalent, will see if I and Roger can settle about some little allowance. That do, eh?"

"I thank you, sir, yes, " said Philip, gratefully. "Agreed, then. Followme--present you to Mrs. P. " Thus saying, Mr. Plaskwith returned theletter to the pocket-book, and the pocket-book to the pocket; and, putting his arms behind his coat tails, threw up his chin, and strodethrough the passage into a small parlour, that locked upon a smallgarden. Here, seated round the table, were a thin lady, with a squint(Mrs. Plaskwith), two little girls, the Misses Plaskwith, also withsquints, and pinafores; a young man of three or four-and-twenty, innankeen trousers, a little the worse for washing, and a black velveteenjacket and waistcoat. This young gentleman was very much freckled; worehis hair, which was dark and wiry, up at one side, down at the other;had a short thick nose; full lips; and, when close to him, smelt ofcigars. Such was Mr. Plimmins, Mr. Plaskwith's factotum, foreman in theshop, assistant editor to the Mercury. Mr. Plaskwith formally went theround of the introduction; Mrs. P. Nodded her head; the Misses P. Nudgedeach other, and grinned; Mr. Plimmins passed his hand through his hair, glanced at the glass, and bowed very politely. 

"Now, Mrs. P. , my second cup, and give Mr. Morton his dish of tea. Mustbe tired, sir--hot day. Jemima, ring--no, go to the stairs and call out'more buttered toast. ' That's the shorter way--promptitude is my rule inlife, Mr. Morton. Pray-hum, hum--have you ever, by chance, studied thebiography of the great Napoleon Buonaparte?"

Mr. Plimmins gulped down his tea, and kicked Philip under the table. Philip looked fiercely at the foreman, and replied, sullenly, "No, sir. "

"That's a pity. Napoleon Buonaparte was a very great man, --very! Youhave seen his cast?--there it is, on the dumb waiter! Look at it! see alikeness, eh?"

"Likeness, sir? I never saw Napoleon Buonaparte. "

"Never saw him! No, just look round the room. Who does that bust put youin mind of? who does it resemble?"

Here Mr. Plaskwith rose, and placed himself in an attitude; his hand inhis waistcoat, and his face pensively inclined towards the tea-table. "Now fancy me at St. Helena; this table is the ocean. Now, then, who isthat cast like, Mr. Philip Morton?"

"I suppose, sir, it is like you!"

"Ah, that it is! strikes every one! Does it not, Mrs. P. , does it not?And when you have known me longer, you will find a moral similitude--amoral, sir! Straightforward--short--to the point--bold--determined!"

"Bless me, Mr. P. !" said Mrs. Plaskwith, very querulously, "do makehaste with your tea; the young gentleman, I suppose, wants to go home, and the coach passes in a quarter of an hour. "

"Have you seen Kean in Richard the Third, Mr. Morton?" asked Mr. Plimmins. 

"I have never seen a play. "

"Never seen a play! How very odd!"

"Not at all odd, Mr. Plimmins, " said the stationer. "Mr. Morton hasknown troubles--so hand him the hot toast. "

Silent and morose, but rather disdainful than sad, Philip listened tothe babble round him, and observed the ungenial characters with whichhe was to associate. He cared not to please (that, alas! had never beenespecially his study); it was enough for him if he could see, stretchingto his mind's eye beyond the walls of that dull room, the long vistasinto fairer fortune. At sixteen, what sorrow can freeze the Hope, orwhat prophetic fear whisper, "Fool!" to the Ambition? He would bear backinto ease and prosperity, if not into affluence and station, the dearones left at home. From the eminence of five shillings a week, he lookedover the Promised Land. 

At length, Mr. Plaskwith, pulling out his watch, said, "Just in timeto catch the coach; make your bow and be off-smart's the word!" Philiprose, took up his hat, made a stiff bow that included the whole group, and vanished with his host. 

Mrs. Plaskwith breathed more easily when he was gone. "I never seeda more odd, fierce, ill-bred-looking young man! I declare I am quiteafraid of him. What an eye he has!"

"Uncommonly dark; what I may say gipsy-like, " said Mr. Plimmins. 

"He! he! You always do say such good things, Plimmins. Gipsy-like, he!he! So he is! I wonder if he can tell fortunes?"

"He'll be long before he has a fortune of his own to tell. Ha! ha!" saidPlimmins. 

"He! he! how very good! you are so pleasant, Plimmins. "

While these strictures on his appearance were still going on, Philip hadalready ascended the roof of the coach; and, waving his hand, with thecondescension of old times, to his future master, was carried away bythe "Express" in a whirlwind of dust. 

"A very warm evening, sir, " said a passenger seated at his right;puffing, while he spoke, from a short German pipe, a volume of smoke inPhilip's face. 

"Very warm. Be so good as to smoke into the face of the gentleman on theother side of you, " returned Philip, petulantly. 

"Ho, ho!" replied the passenger, with a loud, powerful laugh-the laughof a strong man. "You don't take to the pipe yet; you will by and by, when you have known the cares and anxieties that I have gone through. A pipe!--it is a great soother!--a pleasant comforter! Blue devils flybefore its honest breath! It ripens the brain--it opens the heart; andthe man who smokes thinks like a sage and acts like a Samaritan!"

Roused from his reverie by this quaint and unexpected declamation, Philip turned his quick glance at his neighbour. He saw a man of greatbulk and immense physical power--broad-shouldered--deep-chested--notcorpulent, but taking the same girth from bone and muscle that acorpulent man does from flesh. He wore a blue coat--frogged, braided, and buttoned to the throat. A broad-brimmed straw hat, set on one side, gave a jaunty appearance to a countenance which, notwithstanding itsjovial complexion and smiling mouth, had, in repose, a bold and decidedcharacter. It was a face well suited to the frame, inasmuch as itbetokened a mind capable of wielding and mastering the brute physicalforce of body;--light eyes of piercing intelligence; rough, but resoluteand striking features, and a jaw of iron. There was thought, there waspower, there was passion in the shaggy brow, the deep-ploughed lines, the dilated, nostril and the restless play of the lips. Philip lookedhard and grave, and the man returned his look. 

"What do you think of me, young gentleman?" asked the passenger, as hereplaced the pipe in his mouth. "I am a fine-looking man, am I not?"

"You seem a strange one. "

"Strange!--Ay, I puzzle you, as I have done, and shall do, many. Youcannot read me as easily as I can read you. Come, shall I guess at yourcharacter and circumstances? You are a gentleman, or something like it, by birth;--that the tone of your voice tells me. You are poor, devilishpoor;--that the hole in your coat assures me. You are proud, fiery, discontented, and unhappy;--all that I see in your face. It was becauseI saw those signs that I spoke to you. I volunteer no acquaintance withthe happy. "

"I dare say not; for if you know all the unhappy you must have asufficiently large acquaintance, " returned Philip. 

"Your wit is beyond your years! What is your calling, if the questiondoes not offend you?"

"I have none as yet, " said Philip, with a slight sigh, and a deep blush. 

"More's the pity!" grunted the smoker, with a long emphatic nasalintonation. "I should have judged that you were a raw recruit in thecamp of the enemy. "

"Enemy! I don't understand you. "

"In other words, a plant growing out of a lawyer's desk. I will explain. There is one class of spiders, industrious, hard-working octopedes, who, out of the sweat of their brains (I take it, by the by, that a spidermust have a fine craniological development), make their own webs andcatch their flies. There is another class of spiders who have no stuffin them wherewith to make webs; they, therefore, wander about, lookingout for food provided by the toil of their neighbours. Whenever theycome to the web of a smaller spider, whose larder seems well supplied, they rush upon his domain--pursue him to his hole--eat him up if theycan--reject him if he is too tough for their maws, and quietly possessthemselves of all the legs and wings they find dangling in his meshes:these spiders I call enemies--the world calls them lawyers!"

Philip laughed: "And who are the first class of spiders?"

"Honest creatures who openly confess that they live upon flies. Lawyersfall foul upon them, under pretence of delivering flies from theirclutches. They are wonderful blood-suckers, these lawyers, in spite ofall their hypocrisy. Ha! ha! ho! ho!"

And with a loud, rough chuckle, more expressive of malignity than mirth, the man turned himself round, applied vigorously to his pipe, and sankinto a silence which, as mile after mile glided past the wheels, hedid not seem disposed to break. Neither was Philip inclined to becommunicative. Considerations for his own state and prospects swallowedup the curiosity he might otherwise have felt as to his singularneighbour. He had not touched food since the early morning. Anxiety hadmade him insensible to hunger, till he arrived at Mr. Plaskwith's;and then, feverish, sore, and sick at heart, the sight of the luxuriesgracing the tea-table only revolted him. He did not now feel hunger, buthe was fatigued and faint. For several nights the sleep which youth canso ill dispense with had been broken and disturbed; and now, therapid motion of the coach, and the free current of a fresher and moreexhausting air than he had been accustomed to for many months, began tooperate on his nerves like the intoxication of a narcotic. His eyes grewheavy; indistinct mists, through which there seemed to glare the varioussquints of the female Plaskwiths, succeeded the gliding road and thedancing trees. His head fell on his bosom; and thence, instinctivelyseeking the strongest support at hand, inclined towards the stoutsmoker, and finally nestled itself composedly on that gentleman'sshoulder. The passenger, feeling this unwelcome and unsolicited weight, took the pipe, which he had already thrice refilled, from his lips, and emitted an angry and impatient snort; finding that this produced noeffect, and that the load grew heavier as the boy's sleep grew deeper, he cried, in a loud voice, "Holla! I did not pay my fare to be yourbolster, young man!" and shook himself lustily. Philip started, andwould have fallen sidelong from the coach, if his neighbour had notgriped him hard with a hand that could have kept a young oak fromfalling. 

"Rouse yourself!--you might have had an ugly tumble. " Philip mutteredsomething inaudible, between sleeping and waking, and turned his darkeyes towards the man; in that glance there was so much unconscious, but sad and deep reproach, that the passenger felt touched and ashamed. Before however, he could say anything in apology or conciliation, Philiphad again fallen asleep. But this time, as if he had felt and resentedthe rebuff he had received, he inclined his head away from hisneighbour, against the edge of a box on the roof--a dangerous pillow, from which any sudden jolt might transfer him to the road below. 

"Poor lad!--he looks pale!" muttered the man, and he knocked the weedfrom his pipe, which he placed gently in his pocket. "Perhaps the smokewas too much for him--he seems ill and thin, " and he took the boy's longlean fingers in his own. "His cheek is hollow!--what do I know but itmay be with fasting? Pooh! I was a brute. Hush, coachee, hush! don'ttalk so loud, and be d---d to you--he will certainly be off!" and theman softly and creepingly encircled the boy's waist with his huge arm. 

"Now, then, to shift his head; so-so, --that's right. " Philip's sallowcheek and long hair were now tenderly lapped on the soliloquist'sbosom. "Poor wretch! he smiles; perhaps he is thinking of home, and thebutterflies he ran after when he was an urchin--they never come back, those days;--never--never--never! I think the wind veers to the east; hemay catch cold;"--and with that, the man, sliding the head for a moment, and with the tenderness of a woman, from his breast to his shoulder, unbuttoned his coat (as he replaced the weight, no longer unwelcomed, inits former part), and drew the lappets closely round the slenderframe of the sleeper, exposing his own sturdy breast--for he wore nowaistcoat--to the sharpening air. Thus cradled on that stranger's bosom, wrapped from the present and dreaming perhaps--while a heart scorchedby fierce and terrible struggles with life and sin made his pillow--of afair and unsullied future, slept the fatherless and friendless boy. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 "Constance. My life, my joy, my food, my all the world, My widow-comfort. "--King John. 

Amidst the glare of lamps--the rattle of carriages--the lumberingof carts and waggons--the throng, the clamour, the reeking life anddissonant roar of London, Philip woke from his happy sleep. He wokeuncertain and confused, and saw strange eyes bent on him kindly andwatchfully. 

"You have slept well, my lad!" said the passenger, in the deep ringingvoice which made itself heard above all the noises around. 

"And you have suffered me to incommode you thus!" said Philip, with moregratitude in his voice and look than, perhaps, he had shown to any oneout of his own family since his birth. 

"You have had but little kindness shown you, my poor boy, if you thinkso 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 manslipped a sovereign into Philip's hand. 

"I don't want money. Though I thank you heartily all the same; it wouldbe a shame at my age to be a beggar. But can you think of an employmentwhere I can make something?--what they offer me is so trifling. I have amother and a brother--a mere child, sir--at home. "

"Employment!" repeated the man; and as the coach now stopped at thetavern door, the light of the lamp fell full on his marked face. "Ay, Iknow of employment; but you should apply to some one else to obtain itfor 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 rudeand blunt curiosity. 

"Me!" returned the passenger, with his deep laugh. "Oh! I know somepeople 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 toyou!"

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

Philip sighed. "He has friends, " he muttered to himself; and, paying hisfare, 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 atMr. Plaskwith's, and Mrs. Morton's health was so decidedly worse, thatshe resolved to know her fate, and consult a physician. The oracle wasat first ambiguous in its response. But when Mrs. Morton said firmly, "I have duties to perform; upon your candid answer rest my Plans withrespect to my children--left, if I die suddenly, destitute in theworld, "--the doctor looked hard in her face, saw its calm resolution, and replied frankly:

"Lose no time, then, in arranging your plans; life is uncertainwith all--with you, especially; you may live some time yet, but yourconstitution 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, andsmiled up in his face. 

"And that child, sir?" said the mother, wistfully, forgetting the dreadfiat pronounced against herself, --"he is so delicate!"

"Not at all, ma'am, --a very fine little fellow;" and the doctor pattedthe boy's head, and abruptly vanished. 

"Ah! mamma, I wish you would ride--I wish you would take the whitepony!"

"Poor boy! poor boy!" muttered the mother; "I must not be selfish. " Shecovered her face with her hands, and began to think!

Could she, thus doomed, resolve on declining her brother's offer? Did itnot, 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? Wouldhe be as kind to the boy as now when she could commend him with her ownlips to his care--when she could place that precious charge into hishands? With these thoughts, she formed one of those resolutions whichhave all the strength of self-sacrificing love. She would put the boyfrom 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 Mortonand his family sat in that snug and comfortable retreat which generallybacks the warerooms of an English tradesman. Happy often, and indeedhappy, is that little sanctuary, near to, and yet remote from, thetoil and care of the busy mart from which its homely ease and peacefulsecurity are drawn. Glance down those rows of silenced shops in a townat night, and picture the glad and quiet groups gathered within, overthat nightly and social meal which custom has banished from the moreindolent tribes who neither toil nor spin. Placed between the twoextremes of life, the tradesman, who ventures not beyond his means, and sees clear books and sure gains, with enough of occupation to givehealthful excitement, enough of fortune to greet each new-born childwithout a sigh, might be envied alike by those above and those below hisstate--if the restless heart of men ever envied Content!

"And so the little boy is not to come?" said Mrs. Morton as she crossedher knife and fork, and pushed away her plate, in token that she haddone supper. 

"I don't know. --Children, go to bed; there--there--that will do. Goodnight!--Catherine does not say either yes or no. She wants time toconsider. "

"It was a very handsome offer on our part; some folks never know whenthey are well off. "

"That is very true, my dear, and you are a very sensible person. Kateherself might have been an honest woman, and, what is more, a veryrich woman, by this time. She might have married Spencer, the youngbrewer--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 besure. She was uncommonly handsome, my sister Catherine. "

"Handsome is as handsome does, Mr. Morton, " said the wife, who was verymuch 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 itscustomary corner. 

"You saw your brother's letter, " said he, after a pause; "he gives youngPhilip a very good character. "

"The human heart is very deceitful, " replied Mrs. Morton, who, by theway, spoke through her nose. "Pray Heaven he may be what he seems; butwhat's bred in the bone comes out in the flesh. "

"We must hope the best, " said Mr. Morton, mildly; "and--put another lumpinto 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 peopledon't know what it is to be a mother. And, besides, it would have beenvery awkward, Mr. M. ; we could never have said who he was: and I've nodoubt Miss Pryinall would have been very curious. "

"Miss Pryinall be ----!" Mr. Morton checked himself, took a largedraught of the brandy and water, and added, "Miss Pryinall wants to havea finger in everybody's pie. "

"But she buys a deal of flannel, and does great good to the town; it wasshe 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 manwith a family, should say, poor Mrs. Giles!"

"My dear, when people who have been well off come to the workhouse, theymay be called poor:--but that's neither here nor there; only, if the boydoes 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 hasa wife and family, the less he meddles with other folks and their littleones, the better. For as the Scripture says, 'A man shall cleave to hiswife and--'"

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

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

Somewhat reluctantly and slowly, Mr. Morton rose; and, proceeding to thepassage, unbarred the door. A brief and muttered conversation followed, to the great irritability of Mrs. Morton, who stood in the passage--thecandle 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 beback soon. "

"She can't come here--she sha'n't come here, Mr. M. I'm an honestwoman--she can't come here. You understand--"

Mr. Morton had naturally a stern countenance, stern to every one but hiswife. The shrill tone to which he was so long accustomed jarred then onhis heart as well as his ear. He frowned:

"Pshaw! woman, you have no feeling!" said he, and walked out of thehouse, pulling his hat over his brows. That was the only rude speechMr. Morton had ever made to his better half. She treasured it up in herheart and memory; it was associated with the sister and the child; andshe was not a woman who ever forgave. 

Mr. Morton walked rapidly through the still, moon-lit streets, till hereached 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!" mingledwith the stamping of feet and the jingling of glasses, saluted hisentrance. He was a stiff, sober, respectable man, --a man who, except atelections--he was a great politician--mixed in none of the revels of hismore boisterous townsmen. The sounds, the spot, were ungenial to him. Hepaused, and the colour of shame rose to his brow. He was ashamed to bethere--ashamed to meet the desolate and, as he believed, erring sister. 

A pretty maidservant, heated and flushed with orders and compliments, crossed his path with a tray full of glasses. 

"There's a lady come by the Telegraph?"

"Yes, sir, upstairs, No. 2, Mr. Morton. "

Mr. Morton! He shrank at the sound of his own name. 

"My wife's right, " he muttered. "After all, this is more unpleasant thanI thought for. "

The slight stairs shook under his hasty tread. He opened the door of No. 2, and that Catherine, whom he had last seen at her age of gay sixteen, radiant with bloom, and, but for her air of pride, the model for aHebe, --that Catherine, old ere youth was gone, pale, faded, the darkhair silvered over, the cheeks hollow, and the eye dim, --that Catherinefell upon his breast!

"God bless you, brother! How kind to come! How long since we have met!"

"Sit down, Catherine, my dear sister. You are faint--you are very muchchanged--very. I should not have known you. "

"Brother, I have brought my boy; it is painful to part fromhim--very--very painful: but it is right, and God's will be done. " Sheturned, as she spoke, towards a little, deformed rickety dwarf of asofa, that seemed to hide itself in the darkest corner of the low, gloomy room; and Morton followed her. With one hand she removed theshawl that she had thrown over the child, and placing the forefinger ofthe other upon her lips-lips that smiled then--she whispered, --"We willnot wake him, he is so tired. But I would not put him to bed till youhad seen him. "

And there slept poor Sidney, his fair cheek pillowed on his arm; thesoft, silky ringlets thrown from the delicate and unclouded brow;the natural bloom increased by warmth and travel; the lovely face soinnocent and hushed; the breathing so gentle and regular, as if neverbroken by a sigh. 

Mr. Morton drew his hand across his eyes. 

There was something very touching in the contrast between that wakeful, anxious, forlorn woman, and the slumber of the unconscious boy. Andin that moment, what breast upon which the light of Christian pity--ofnatural affection, had ever dawned, would, even supposing the world'sjudgment were true, have recalled Catherine's reputed error? There isso divine a holiness in the love of a mother, that no matter how thetie that binds her to the child was formed, she becomes, as it were, consecrated and sacred; and the past is forgotten, and the world and itsharsh verdicts swept away, when that love alone is visible; and the God, who watches over the little one, sheds His smile over the human deputy, in whose tenderness there breathes His own!

"You will be kind to him--will you not?" said Mrs. Morton; and theappeal was made with that trustful, almost cheerful tone which implies, 'Who would not be kind to a thing so fair and helpless?' "He is verysensitive and very docile; you will never have occasion to say a hardword to him--never! you have children of your own, brother. "

"He is a beautiful boy-beautiful. I will be a father to him!"

As he spoke, --the recollection of his wife--sour, querulous, austere--came over him, but he said to himself, "She must take to sucha child, --women always take to beauty. " He bent down and gently pressedhis lips to Sidney's forehead: Mrs. Morton replaced the shawl, and drewher brother to the other end of the room. 

"And now, " she said, colouring as she spoke, "I must see your wife, brother: there is so much to say about a child that only a woman willrecollect. Is she very good-tempered and kind, your wife? You know Inever saw her; you married after--after I left. "

"She is a very worthy woman, " said Mr. Morton, clearing his throat, "andbrought me some money; she has a will of her own, as most women have;but that's neither here nor there--she is a good wife as wives go; andprudent and painstaking--I don't know what I should do without her. "

"Brother, I have one favour to request--a great favour. "

"Anything I can do in the way of money?"

"It has nothing to do with money. I can't live long--don't shake yourhead--I can't live long. I have no fear for Philip, he has so muchspirit--such strength of character--but that child! I cannot bear toleave him altogether; let me stay in this town--I can lodge anywhere;but to see him sometimes--to know I shall be in reach if he is ill--letme stay here--let me die here!"

"You must not talk so sadly--you are young yet--younger than I am--Idon't think of dying. "

"Heaven forbid! but--"

"Well--well, " interrupted Mr. Morton, who began to fear his feelingswould hurry him into some promise which his wife would not suffer him tokeep; "you shall talk to Margaret, --that is Mrs. Morton--I will get herto see you--yes, I think I can contrive that; and if you can arrangewith her to stay, --but you see, as she brought the money, and is a veryparticular woman--"

"I will see her; thank you--thank you; she cannot refuse me. "

"And, brother, " resumed Mrs. Morton, after a short pause, and speakingin a firm voice--"and is it possible that you disbelieve my story?--thatyou, like all the rest, consider my children the sons of shame?"

There was an honest earnestness in Catherine's voice, as she spoke, that might have convinced many. But Mr. Morton was a man of facts, apractical man--a man who believed that law was always right, and thatthe improbable was never true. 

He looked down as he answered, "I think you have been a very ill-usedwoman, Catherine, and that is all I can say on the matter; let us dropthe subject. "

"No! I was not ill-used; my husband--yes, my husband--was noble andgenerous from first to last. It was for the sake of his children'sprospects--for the expectations they, through him, might derive from hisproud uncle--that he concealed our marriage. Do not blame Philip--do notcondemn the dead. "

"I don't want to blame any one, " said Mr. Morton, rather angrily; "I ama plain man--a tradesman, and can only go by what in my class seems fairand honest, which I can't think Mr. Beaufort's conduct was, put it howyou will; if he marries you as you think, he gets rid of a witness, hedestroys a certificate, and he dies without a will. How ever, all that'sneither here nor there. You do quite right not to take the name ofBeaufort, since it is an uncommon name, and would always make the storypublic. Least said, soonest mended. You must always consider that yourchildren will be called natural children, and have their own way tomake. No harm in that! Warm day for your journey. " Catherine sighed, andwiped her eyes; she no longer reproached the world, since the son of herown mother disbelieved her. 

The relations talked together for some minutes on the past--the present;but there was embarrassment and constraint on both sides--it was sodifficult to avoid one subject; and after sixteen years of absence, there is little left in common, even between those who once playedtogether round their parent's knees. Mr. Morton was glad at last to findan excuse in Catherine's fatigue to leave her. "Cheer up, and take aglass of something warm before you go to bed. Good night!" these werehis parting words. 

Long was the conference, and sleepless the couch, of Mr. And Mrs. Morton. At first that estimable lady positively declared she would notand could not visit Catherine (as to receiving her, that was out of thequestion). But she secretly resolved to give up that point in order toinsist with greater strength upon another-viz. , the impossibility ofCatherine remaining in the town; such concession for the purpose ofresistance being a very common and sagacious policy with married ladies. Accordingly, when suddenly, and with a good grace, Mrs. Morton appearedaffected by her husband's eloquence, and said, "Well, poor thing! if sheis so ill, and you wish it so much, I will call to-morrow, " Mr. Mortonfelt his heart softened towards the many excellent reasons which hiswife urged against allowing Catherine to reside in the town. He wasa political character--he had many enemies; the story of his seducedsister, now forgotten, would certainly be raked up; it would affect hiscomfort, perhaps his trade, certainly his eldest daughter, who wasnow thirteen; it would be impossible then to adopt the plan hithertoresolved upon--of passing off Sidney as the legitimate orphan of adistant relation; it would be made a great handle for gossip by MissPryinall. Added to all these reasons, one not less strong occurred toMr. Morton himself--the uncommon and merciless rigidity of his wifewould render all the other women in the town very glad of any topic thatwould humble her own sense of immaculate propriety. Moreover, hesaw that if Catherine did remain, it would be a perpetual source ofirritation in his own home; he was a man who liked an easy life, andavoided, as far as possible, all food for domestic worry. And thus, whenat length the wedded pair turned back to back, and composed themselvesto sleep, the conditions of peace were settled, and the weaker party, as usual in diplomacy, sacrificed to the interests of the unitedpowers. After breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Morton sallied out onher husband's arm. Mr. Morton was rather a handsome man, with an airand look grave, composed, severe, that had tended much to raise hischaracter in the town. 

Mrs. Morton was short, wiry, and bony. She had won her husband by makingdesperate love to him, to say nothing of a dower that enabled him toextend his business, new-front, as well as new-stock his shop, andrise into the very first rank of tradesmen in his native town. He stillbelieved that she was excessively fond of him--a common delusion ofhusbands, especially when henpecked. Mrs. Morton was, perhaps, fond ofhim in her own way; for though her heart was not warm, there may be agreat deal of fondness with very little feeling. The worthy lady was nowclothed in her best. She had a proper pride in showing the rewards thatbelong to female virtue. Flowers adorned her Leghorn bonnet, and hergreen silk gown boasted four flounces, --such, then, was, I am told, thefashion. She wore, also, a very handsome black shawl, extremely heavy, though the day was oppressively hot, and with a deep border; a smartsevigni brooch of yellow topazes glittered in her breast; a huge giltserpent glared from her waistband; her hair, or more properly speakingher front, was tortured into very tight curls, and her feet into verytight half-laced boots, from which the fragrance of new leather had notyet departed. It was this last infliction, for il faut souffrir pouretre belle, which somewhat yet more acerbated the ordinary acid ofMrs. Morton's temper. The sweetest disposition is ruffled when the shoepinches; and it so happened that Mrs. Roger Morton was one of thoseladies who always have chilblains in the winter and corns in the summer. "So you say your sister is a beauty?"

"Was a beauty, Mrs. M. , --was a beauty. People alter. "

"A bad conscience, Mr. Morton, is--"

"My dear, can't you walk faster?"

"If you had my corns, Mr. Morton, you would not talk in that way!"

The happy pair sank into silence, only broken by sundry "How d'ye dos?"and "Good mornings!" interchanged with their friends, till they arrivedat the inn. 

"Let us go up quickly, " said Mrs. Morton. 

And quiet--quiet to gloom, did the inn, so noisy overnight, seem bymorning. The shutters partially closed to keep out the sun--the taproomdeserted--the passage smelling of stale smoke--an elderly dog, lazilysnapping at the flies, at the foot of the staircase--not a soul to beseen at the bar. The husband and wife, glad to be unobserved, crept ontiptoe up the stairs, and entered Catherine's apartment. 

Catherine was seated on the sofa, and Sidney-dressed, like Mrs. RogerMorton, to look his prettiest, nor yet aware of the change that awaitedhis destiny, but pleased at the excitement of seeing new friends, ashandsome children sure of praise and petting usually are--stood by herside. 

"My wife--Catherine, " said Mr. Morton. Catherine rose eagerly, andgazed searchingly on her sister-in-law's hard face. She swallowed theconvulsive rising at her heart as she gazed, and stretched out bothher hands, not so much to welcome as to plead. Mrs. Roger Morton drewherself up, and then dropped a courtesy--it was an involuntary piece ofgood breeding--it was extorted by the noble countenance, the matronlymien of Catherine, different from what she had anticipated--she droppedthe courtesy, and Catherine took her hand and pressed it. 

"This is my son;" she turned away her head. Sidney advanced towards hisprotectress who was to be, and Mrs. Roger muttered:

"Come here, my dear! A fine little boy!"

"As fine a child as ever I saw!" said Mr. Morton, heartily, as he tookSidney on his lap, and stroked down his, golden hair. 

This displeased Mrs. Roger Morton, but she sat herself down, and said itwas "very warm. "

"Now go to that lady, my dear, " said Mr. Morton. "Is she not a very nicelady?--don't you think you shall like her very much?"

Sidney, the best-mannered child in the world, went boldly up to Mrs. Morton, as he was bid. Mrs. Morton was embarrassed. Some folks are sowith other folk's children: a child either removes all constraint froma party, or it increases the constraint tenfold. Mrs. Morton, however, forced a smile, and said, "I have a little boy at home about your age. "

"Have you?" exclaimed Catherine, eagerly; and as if that confessionmade them friends at once, she drew a chair close to hersister-in-law's, --"My brother has told you all?"

"Yes, ma'am. "

"And I shall stay here--in the town somewhere--and see him sometimes?"

Mrs. Roger Morton glanced at her husband--her husband glanced at thedoor--and Catherine's quick eye turned from one to the other. 

"Mr. Morton will explain, ma' am, " said the wife. 

"E-hem!--Catherine, my dear, I am afraid that is out of the question, "began Mr. Morton, who, when fairly put to it, could be business-likeenough. "You see bygones are bygones, and it is no use raking them up. But many people in the town will recollect you. "

"No one will see me--no one, but you and Sidney. "

"It will be sure to creep out; won't it, Mrs. Morton?"

"Quite sure. Indeed, ma'am, it is impossible. Mr. Morton is so veryrespectable, and his neighbours pay so much attention to all he does;and then, if we have an election in the autumn, you see, ma'am, he has agreat stake in the place, and is a public character. "

"That's neither here nor there, " said Mr. Morton. "But I say, Catherine, can your little boy go into the other room for a moment? Margaret, suppose you take him and make friends. "

Delighted to throw on her husband the burden of explanation, which shehad originally meant to have all the importance of giving herself in hermost proper and patronising manner, Mrs. Morton twisted her fingersinto the boy's hand, and, opening the door that communicated with thebedroom, left the brother and sister alone. And then Mr. Morton, withmore tact and delicacy than might have been expected from him, began tosoften to Catherine the hard ship of the separation he urged. He dweltprincipally on what was best for the child. Boys were so brutal in theirintercourse with each other. He had even thought it better representPhilip to Mr. Plaskwith as a more distant relation than he was; and hebegged, by the by, that Catherine would tell Philip to take the hint. But as for Sidney, sooner or later, he would go to a day-school--havecompanions of his own age--if his birth were known, he would be exposedto many mortifications--so much better, and so very easy, to bring himup as the lawful, that is the legal, offspring of some distant relation. 

"And, " cried poor Catherine, clasping her bands, "when I am dead, ishe never to know that I was his mother?" The anguish of that questionthrilled the heart of the listener. He was affected below all thesurface that worldly thoughts and habits had laid, stratum by stratum, over the humanities within. He threw his arms round Catherine, andstrained her to his breast:

"No, my sister--my poor sister-he shall know it when he is old enough tounderstand, and to keep his own secret. He shall know, too, how weall loved and prized you once; how young you were, how flattered andtempted; how you were deceived, for I know that--on my soul I do--I knowit was not your fault. He shall know, too, how fondly you loved yourchild, and how you sacrificed, for his sake, the very comfort of beingnear him. He shall know it all--all--"

"My brother--my brother, I resign him--I am content. God reward you. Iwill go--go quickly. I know you will take care of him now. "

"And you see, " resumed Mr. Morton, re-settling himself, and wiping hiseyes, "it is best, between you and me, that Mrs. Morton should have herown way in this. She is a very good woman--very; but it's prudent not tovex 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 hisbed 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? Nextto Martha's. Martha is our parlourmaid--very good-natured girl, and fondof children. "

Mrs. Morton looked grave, thought a moment, and said, "Yes, he can havethat 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 thedespair would only have been felt by the acute ear of sympathy, --"goingaway for a little time: but this gentleman and lady will be very--verykind 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 aloud cry, broke from his aunt, rushed to his mother's breast, and hidhis face there, sobbing bitterly. 

"I am afraid he has been very much spoiled, " whispered Mrs. RogerMorton. "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 withyou. "

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 theparlour-maid. Mrs. Roger herself had given him a large slice of breadand 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 wasfull, and his eyes, swimming with tears, were turned at every momentto the door. But he did not show the violent grief that might have beenexpected. His very desolation, amidst the unfamiliar faces, awed andchilled him. But when Martha took him to bed, and undressed him, and heknelt down to say his prayers, and came to the words, "Pray God blessdear mamma, and make me a good child, " his heart could contain its loadno longer, and he sobbed with a passion that alarmed the good-naturedservant. She had been used, however, to children, and she soothed andcaressed him, and told him of all the nice things he would do, and thenice toys he would have; and at last, silenced, if not convinced, hiseyes closed, and, the tears yet wet on their lashes, he fell asleep. 

It had been arranged that Catherine should return home that night by alate coach, which left the town at twelve. It was already past eleven. Mrs. Morton had retired to bed; and her husband, who had, according tohis wont, lingered behind to smoke a cigar over his last glass of brandyand water, had just thrown aside the stump, and was winding up hiswatch, 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 atthe poker, and then cautiously moved to the window, and lookedforth, --"Who's there?"

"It is I--it is Catherine! I cannot go without seeing my boy. I must seehim--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 allis hushed in your house, till no one, not even a menial, need see themother stealing to the bed of her child. Brother, by the memory of ourown mother, I command you to let me look, for the last time, upon myboy's face!"

As Catherine said this, standing in that lonely street--darkness andsolitude below, God and the stars above--there was about her a majestywhich awed the listener. Though she was so near, her features werenot very clearly visible; but her attitude--her hand raised aloft--theoutline of her wasted but still commanding form, were more impressivefrom the shadowy dimness of the air. 

"Come round, Catherine, " said Mr. Morton after a pause; "I will admityou. "

He shut the window, stole to the door, unbarred it gently, and admittedhis visitor. He bade her follow him; and, shading the light with hishand, crept up the stairs. Catherine's step made no sound. 

They passed, unmolested, and unheard, the room in which the wife wasdrowsily reading, according to her custom before she tied her nightcapand got into bed, a chapter in some pious book. They ascended to thechamber where Sidney lay; Morton opened the door cautiously, and stoodat the threshold, so holding the candle that its light might not wakethe child, though it sufficed to guide Catherine to the bed. The roomwas small, perhaps close, but scrupulously clean; for cleanliness wasMrs. Roger Morton's capital virtue. The mother, with a tremulous hand, drew aside the white curtains, and checked her sobs as she gazed on theyoung quiet face that was turned towards her. She gazed some moments inpassionate silence; who shall say, beneath that silence, what thoughts, what prayers moved and stirred!

Then bending down, with pale, convulsive lips she kissed the littlehands thrown so listlessly on the coverlet of the pillow on which thehead lay. After this she turned her face to her brother with a muteappeal in her glance, took a ring from her finger--a ring that had nevertill then left it--the ring which Philip Beaufort had placed there theday after that child was born. "Let him wear this round his neck, " saidshe, and stopped, lest she should sob aloud, and disturb the boy. Inthat gift she felt as if she invoked the father's spirit to watch overthe 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, "Iam happy now; peace be on these thresholds!" Before he could answer shewas 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. "--RICHARD EDWARDS. From the Paradise of Dainty Devices. 

It was that period of the year when, to those who look on the surface ofsociety, London wears its most radiant smile; when shops are gayest, and trade most brisk; when down the thoroughfares roll and glitter thecountless streams of indolent and voluptuous life; when the upper classspend, and the middle class make; when the ball-room is the Market ofBeauty, and the club-house the School for Scandal; when the hells yawnfor their prey, and opera-singers and fiddlers--creatures hatched fromgold, as the dung-flies from the dung-swarm, and buzz, and fatten, roundthe hide of the gentle Public In the cant phase, it was "the Londonseason. " And happy, take it altogether, happy above the rest of theyear, even for the hapless, is that period of ferment and fever. It isnot the season for duns, and the debtor glides about with a less anxiouseye; and the weather is warm, and the vagrant sleeps, unfrozen, underthe starlit portico; and the beggar thrives, and the thief rejoices--forthe rankness of the civilisation has superfluities clutched by all. Andout of the general corruption things sordid and things miserable crawlforth to bask in the common sunshine--things that perish when the firstautumn winds whistle along the melancholy city. It is the gay timefor the heir and the beauty, and the statesman and the lawyer, and themother with her young daughters, and the artist with his fresh pictures, and the poet with his new book. It is the gay time, too, for the starvedjourneyman, and the ragged outcast that with long stride and patienteyes follows, for pence, the equestrian, who bids him go and be d---d invain. It is a gay time for the painted harlot in a crimson pelisse;and a gay time for the old hag that loiters about the thresholds of thegin-shop, to buy back, in a draught, the dreams of departed youth. It isgay, in fine, as the fulness of a vast city is ever gay--for Vice asfor Innocence, for Poverty as for Wealth. And the wheels of every singledestiny wheel on the merrier, no matter whether they are bound to Heavenor to Hell. 

Arthur Beaufort, the young heir, was at his father's house. He was freshfrom Oxford, where he had already discovered that learning is not betterthan house and land. Since the new prospects opened to him, ArthurBeaufort was greatly changed. Naturally studious and prudent, had hisfortunes remained what they had been before his uncle's death, he wouldprobably have become a laborious and distinguished man. But though hisabilities were good, he had not those restless impulses which belong toGenius--often not only its glory, but its curse. The Golden Rod casthis energies asleep at once. Good-natured to a fault, and somewhatvacillating in character, he adopted the manner and the code of therich young idlers who were his equals at College. He became, likethem, careless, extravagant, and fond of pleasure. This change, if itdeteriorated his mind, improved his exterior. It was a change thatcould not but please women; and of all women his mother the most. Mrs. Beaufort was a lady of high birth; and in marrying her, Robert had hopedmuch from the interest of her connections; but a change in the ministryhad thrown her relations out of power; and, beyond her dowry, heobtained no worldly advantage with the lady of his mercenary choice. Mrs. Beaufort was a woman whom a word or two will describe. She wasthoroughly commonplace--neither bad nor good, neither clever nor silly. She was what is called well-bred; that is, languid, silent, perfectlydressed, and insipid. Of her two children, Arthur was almost theexclusive favourite, especially after he became the heir to suchbrilliant fortunes. For she was so much the mechanical creature of theworld, that even her affection was warm or cold in proportion as theworld shone on it. Without being absolutely in love with her husband, she liked him--they suited each other; and (in spite of all thetemptations that had beset her in their earlier years, for she had beenesteemed a beauty--and lived, as worldly people must do, in circleswhere examples of unpunished gallantry are numerous and contagious) herconduct had ever been scrupulously correct. She had little or no feelingfor misfortunes with which she had never come into contact; for thosewith which she had--such as the distresses of younger sons, or theerrors of fashionable women, or the disappointments of "a properambition"--she had more sympathy than might have been supposed, andtouched on them with all the tact of well-bred charity and ladylikeforbearance. Thus, though she was regarded as a strict person in pointof moral decorum, yet in society she was popular-as women at once prettyand inoffensive generally are. 

To do Mrs. Beaufort justice, she had not been privy to the letter herhusband wrote to Catherine, although not wholly innocent of it. The factis, that Robert had never mentioned to her the peculiar circumstancesthat made Catherine an exception from ordinary rules--the generouspropositions of his brother to him the night before his death; and, whatever his incredulity as to the alleged private marriage, the perfectloyalty and faith that Catherine had borne to the deceased, --he hadmerely observed, "I must do something, I suppose, for that woman; shevery nearly entrapped my poor brother into marrying her; and he wouldthen, for what I know, have cut Arthur out of the estates. Still, I mustdo something for her--eh?"

"Yes, I think so. What was she?-very low?"

"A tradesman's daughter. "

"The children should be provided for according to the rank of themother; that's the general rule in such cases: and the mother shouldhave about the same provision she might have looked for if she hadmarried a tradesman and been left a widow. I dare say she was a veryartful kind of person, and don't deserve anything; but it is alwayshandsomer, in the eyes of the world, to go by the general rules peoplelay down as to money matters. "

So spoke Mrs. Beaufort. She concluded her husband had settled thematter, and never again recurred to it. Indeed, she had never liked thelate Mr. Beaufort, whom she considered mauvais ton. 

In the breakfast-room at Mr. Beaufort's, the mother and son were seated;the former at work, the latter lounging by the window: they were notalone. In a large elbow-chair sat a middle-aged man, listening, orappearing to listen, to the prattle of a beautiful little girl--ArthurBeaufort's sister. This man was not handsome, but there was a certainelegance in his air, and a certain intelligence in his countenance, which made his appearance pleasing. He had that kind of eye which isoften seen with red hair--an eye of a reddish hazel, with very longlashes; the eyebrows were dark, and clearly defined; and the shorthair showed to advantage the contour of a small well-shaped head. Hisfeatures were irregular; the complexion had been sanguine, but wasnow faded, and a yellow tinge mingled with the red. His face was morewrinkled, especially round the eyes--which, when he laughed, werescarcely visible--than is usual even in men ten years older. But histeeth were still of a dazzling whiteness; nor was there any trace ofdecayed health in his countenance. He seemed one who had lived hard;but who had much yet left in the lamp wherewith to feed the wick. Atthe first glance he appeared slight, as he lolled listlessly in hischair--almost fragile. But, at a nearer examination, you perceived that, in spite of the small extremities and delicate bones, his frame wasconstitutionally strong. Without being broad in the shoulders, he wasexceedingly deep in the chest--deeper than men who seemed giants by hisside; and his gestures had the ease of one accustomed to an active life. He had, indeed, been celebrated in his youth for his skill in athleticexercises, but a wound, received in a duel many years ago, had renderedhim lame for life--a misfortune which interfered with his former habits, and was said to have soured his temper. This personage, whose positionand character will be described hereafter, was Lord Lilburne, thebrother of Mrs. Beaufort. 

"So, Camilla, " said Lord Lilburne to his niece, as carelessly, notfondly, he stroked down her glossy ringlets, "you don't like BerkeleySquare as you did Gloucester Place. "

"Oh, no! not half so much! You see I never walk out in the fields, --[Nowthe Regent's Park. ]--nor make daisy-chains at Primrose Hill. I don'tknow what mamma means, " added the child, in a whisper, "in saying we arebetter off here. "

Lord Lilburne smiled, but the smile was a half sneer. "You will knowquite soon enough, Camilla; the understandings of young ladies grow upvery quickly on this side of Oxford Street. Well, Arthur, and what areyour plans to-day?"

"Why, " said Arthur, suppressing a yawn, "I have promised to ride outwith a friend of mine, to see a horse that is for sale somewhere in thesuburbs. "

As he spoke, Arthur rose, stretched himself, looked in the glass, andthen glanced impatiently at the window. 

"He ought to be here by this time. "

"He! who?" said Lord Lilburne, "the horse or the other animal--I meanthe friend?"

"The friend, " answered Arthur, smiling, but colouring while he smiled, for he half suspected the quiet sneer of his uncle. 

"Who is your friend, Arthur?" asked Mrs. Beaufort, looking up from herwork. 

"Watson, an Oxford man. By the by, I must introduce him to you. "

"Watson! what Watson? what family of Watson? Some Watsons are good andsome are bad, " said Mrs. Beaufort, musingly. 

"Then they are very unlike the rest of mankind, " observed Lord Lilburne, drily. 

"Oh! my Watson is a very gentlemanlike person, I assure you, " saidArthur, half-laughing, "and you need not be ashamed of him. " Then, rather desirous of turning the conversation, he continued, "So my fatherwill be back from Beaufort Court to-day?"

"Yes; he writes in excellent spirits. He says the rents will bearraising at least ten per cent. , and that the house will not require muchrepair. "

Here Arthur threw open the window. 

"Ah, Watson! how are you? How d'ye do, Marsden? Danvers, too! that'scapital! the more the merrier! I will be down in an instant. But wouldyou not rather come in?"

"An agreeable inundation, " murmured Lord Lilburne. "Three at a time: hetakes your house for Trinity College. "

A loud, clear voice, however, declined the invitation; the horses wereheard pawing without. Arthur seized his hat and whip, and glanced to hismother and uncle, smilingly. "Good-bye! I shall be out till dinner. Kiss me, my pretty Milly!" And as his sister, who had run to the window, sickening for the fresh air and exercise he was about to enjoy, nowturned to him wistful and mournful eyes, the kind-hearted young man tookher in his arms, and whispered while he kissed her:

"Get up early to-morrow, and we'll have such a nice walk together. "

Arthur was gone: his mother's gaze had followed his young and gracefulfigure to the door. 

"Own that he is handsome, Lilburne. May I not say more:--has he not theproper air?"

"My dear sister, your son will be rich. As for his air, he has plenty ofairs, but wants graces. "

"Then who could polish him like yourself?"

"Probably no one. But had I a son--which Heaven forbid!--he shouldnot have me for his Mentor. Place a young man--(go and shut the door, Camilla!)--between two vices--women and gambling, if you want to polishhim into the fashionable smoothness. Entre nous, the varnish is a littleexpensive!"

Mrs. Beaufort sighed. Lord Lilburne smiled. He had a strange pleasure inhurting the feelings of others. Besides, he disliked youth: in his ownyouth he had enjoyed so much that he grew sour when he saw the young. 

Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort and his friends, careless of the warmth ofthe day, were laughing merrily, and talking gaily, as they made for thesuburb of H----. 

"It is an out-of-the-way place for a horse, too, " said Sir HarryDanvers. 

"But I assure you, " insisted Mr. Watson, earnestly, "that my groom, whois a capital judge, says it is the cleverest hack he ever mounted. Ithas won several trotting matches. It belonged to a sporting tradesman, now done up. The advertisement caught me. "

"Well, " said Arthur, gaily, "at all events the ride is delightful. Whatweather! You must all dine with me at Richmond to-morrow--we will rowback. "

"And a little chicken-hazard, at the M---, afterwards, " said Mr. Marsden, who was an elder, not a better, man than the rest--a handsome, saturnine man--who had just left Oxford, and was already known on theturf. 

"Anything you please, " said Arthur, making his horse curvet. 

Oh, Mr. Robert Beaufort! Mr. Robert Beaufort! could your prudent, scheming, worldly heart but feel what devil's tricks your wealth wasplaying with a son who if poor had been the pride of the Beauforts!On one side of our pieces of old we see the saint trampling down thedragon. False emblem! Reverse it on the coin! In the real use of thegold, it is the dragon who tramples down the saint! But on--on! the dayis bright and your companions merry; make the best of your green years, Arthur Beaufort!

The young men had just entered the suburb of H---, and were spurringon four abreast at a canter. At that time an old man, feeling hisway before him with a stick, --for though not quite blind, he sawimperfectly, --was crossing the road. Arthur and his friends, in loudconverse, did not observe the poor passenger. He stopped abruptly, for his ear caught the sound of danger--it was too late: Mr. Marsden'shorse, hard-mouthed, and high-stepping, came full against him. Mr. Marsden looked down:

"Hang these old men! always in the way, " said he, plaintively, and inthe tone of a much-injured person, and, with that, Mr. Marsden rode on. But the others, who were younger--who were not gamblers--who were notyet grinded down into stone by the world's wheels--the others halted. Arthur Beaufort leaped from his horse, and the old man was alreadyin his arms; but he was severely hurt. The blood trickled from hisforehead; he complained of pains in his side and limbs. 

"Lean on me, my poor fellow! Do you live far off? I will take you home. "

"Not many yards. This would not have happened if I had had my dog. Nevermind, sir, go your way. It is only an old man--what of that? I wish Ihad my dog. "

"I will join you, " said Arthur to his friends; "my groom has thedirection. I will just take the poor old man home, and send for asurgeon. I shall not be long. "

"So like you, Beaufort: the best fellow in the world!" said Mr. Watson, with some emotion. "And there's Marsden positively, dismounted, and looking at his horse's knees as if they could be hurt! Here's asovereign for you, my man. "

"And here's another, " said Sir Harry; "so that's settled. Well, you willjoin us, Beaufort? You see the yard yonder. We'll wait twenty minutesfor you. Come on, Watson. " The old man had not picked up the sovereignsthrown at his feet, neither had he thanked the donors. And on hiscountenance there was a sour, querulous, resentful expression. 

"Must a man be a beggar because he is run over, or because he is halfblind?" said he, turning his dim, wandering eyes painfully towardsArthur. "Well, I wish I had my dog!"

"I will supply his place, " said Arthur, soothingly. "Come, lean onme--heavier; that's right. You are not so bad, --eh?"

"Um!--the sovereigns!--it is wicked to leave them in the kennel!"

Arthur smiled. "Here they are, sir. "

The old man slid the coins into his pocket, and Arthur continued totalk, though he got but short answers, and those only in the way ofdirection, till at last the old man stopped at the door of a small housenear the churchyard. 

After twice ringing the bell, the door was opened by a middle-agedwoman, whose appearance was above that of a common menial; dressed, somewhat gaily for her years, in a cap seated very far back on a blacktouroet, and decorated with red ribands, an apron made out of an Indiansilk handkerchief, a puce-coloured sarcenet gown, black silk stockings, long gilt earrings, and a watch at her girdle. 

"Bless us and save us, sir! What has happened?" exclaimed this worthypersonage, holding up her hands. 

"Pish! I am faint: let me in. I don't want your aid any more, sir. Thankyou. Good day!"

Not discouraged by this farewell, the churlish tone of which fellharmless on the invincibly sweet temper of Arthur, the young mancontinued to assist the sufferer along the narrow passage into a littleold-fashioned parlour; and no sooner was the owner deposited on hisworm-eaten leather chair than he fainted away. On reaching the house, Arthur had sent his servant (who had followed him with the horses)for the nearest surgeon; and while the woman was still employed, aftertaking off the sufferer's cravat, in burning feathers under his nose, there was heard a sharp rap and a shrill ring. Arthur opened the door, and admitted a smart little man in nankeen breeches and gaiters. Hebustled into the room. 

"What's this--bad accident--um--um! Sad thing, very sad. Open thewindow. A glass of water--a towel. "

"So--so: I see--I see--no fracture--contusion. Help him off with hiscoat. Another chair, ma'am; put up his poor legs. What age is he, ma'am?--Sixty-eight! Too old to bleed. Thank you. How is it, sir?Poorly, to be sure will be comfortable presently--faintish still? Soonput all to rights. "

"Tray! Tray! Where's my dog, Mrs. Boxer?"

"Lord, sir, what do you want with your dog now? He is in the back-yard. "

"And what business has my dog in the back-yard?" almost screamed thesufferer, in accents that denoted no diminution of vigour. "I thoughtas soon as my back was turned my dog would be ill-used! Why did I gowithout my dog? Let in my dog directly, Mrs. Boxer!"

"All right, you see, sir, " said the apothecary, turning to Beaufort--"nocause for alarm--very comforting that little passion--does himgood--sets one's mind easy. How did it happen? Ah, I understand! knockeddown--might have been worse. Your groom (sharp fellow!) explained in atrice, sir. Thought it was my old friend here by the description. Worthyman--settled here a many year--very odd-eccentric (this in a whisper). Came off instantly: just at dinner--cold lamb and salad. 'Mrs. Perkins, 'says I, 'if any one calls for me, I shall be at No. 4, Prospect Place. 'Your servant observed the address, sir. Oh, very sharp fellow! See howthe old gentleman takes to his dog--fine little dog--what a stump of atail! Deal of practice--expect two accouchements every hour. Hot weatherfor childbirth. So says I to Mrs. Perkins, 'If Mrs. Plummer is taken, orMrs. Everat, or if old Mr. Grub has another fit, send off at once to No. 4. Medical men should be always in the way-that's my maxim. Now, sir, where do you feel the pain?"

"In my ears, sir. "

"Bless me, that looks bad. How long have you felt it?"

"Ever since you have been in the room. "

"Oh! I take. Ha! ha!--very eccentric--very!" muttered the apothecary, a little disconcerted. "Well, let him lie down, ma'am. I'll send him alittle quieting draught to be taken directly--pill at night, aperientin the morning. If wanted, send for me--always to be found. Bless me, that's my boy Bob's ring. Please to open the door, ma' am. Know hisring--very peculiar knack of his own. Lay ten to one it is Mrs. Plummer, or perhaps. Mrs. Everat--her ninth child in eight years--in the groceryline. A woman in a thousand, sir!"

Here a thin boy, with very short coat-sleeves, and very large hands, burst into the room with his mouth open. "Sir--Mr. Perkins--sir!"

"I know--I know-coming. Mrs. Plummer or Mrs. Everat?"

"No, sir; it be the poor lady at Mrs. Lacy's; she be taken desperate. Mrs. Lacy's girl has just been over to the shop, and made me run here toyou, sir. "

"Mrs. Lacy's! oh, I know. Poor Mrs. Morton! Bad case--very bad--must beoff. Keep him quiet, ma'am. Good day! Look in to-morrow-nine o'clock. Put a little lint with the lotion on the head, ma'am. Mrs. Morton! Ah!bad job that. "

Here the apothecary had shuffled himself off to the street door, whenArthur laid his hand on his arm. 

"Mrs. Morton! Did you say Morton, sir? What kind of a person--is shevery ill?"

"Hopeless case, sir--general break-up. Nice woman--quite the lady--knownbetter days, I'm sure. "

"Has she any children--sons?"

"Two--both away now--fine lads--quite wrapped up in them--youngestespecially. "

"Good heavens! it must be she--ill, and dying, and destitute, perhaps, "--exclaimed Arthur, with real and deep feeling; "I will go withyou, sir. I fancy that I know this lady--that, " he added generously, "Iam related to her. "

"Do you?--glad to hear it. Come along, then; she ought to have some onenear her besides servants: not but what Jenny, the maid, is uncommonlykind. Dr. -----, who attends her sometimes, said to me, says he, 'It isthe mind, Mr. Perkins; I wish we could get back her boys. "

"And where are they?"

"'Prenticed out, I fancy. Master Sidney--"

"Sidney!"

"Ah! that was his name--pretty name. D'ye know Sir SidneySmith?--extraordinary man, sir! Master Sidney was a beautifulchild--quite spoiled. She always fancied him ailing--always sendingfor me. 'Mr. Perkins, ' said she, 'there's something the matter withmy child; I'm sure there is, though he won't own it. He has lost hisappetite--had a headache last night. ' 'Nothing the matter, ma'am, ' saysI; 'wish you'd think more of yourself. '

"These mothers are silly, anxious, poor creatures. Nater, sir, Nater--wonderful thing--Nater!--Here we are. "

And the apothecary knocked at the private door of a milliner andhosier's shop. 

CHAPTER X. 

"Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourished. "--Titus Andronicus. 

As might be expected, the excitement and fatigue of Catherine's journeyto N---- had considerably accelerated the progress of disease. And whenshe reached home, and looked round the cheerless rooms all solitary, allhushed--Sidney gone, gone from her for ever, she felt, indeed, as ifthe last reed on which she had leaned was broken, and her business uponearth was done. Catherine was not condemned to absolute poverty--thepoverty which grinds and gnaws, the poverty of rags and famine. She hadstill left nearly half of such portion of the little capital, realisedby the sale of her trinkets, as had escaped the clutch of the law; andher brother had forced into her hands a note for L20. With an assurancethat the same sum should be paid to her half-yearly. Alas! there waslittle chance of her needing it again! She was not, then, in want ofmeans to procure the common comforts of life. But now a new passion hadentered into her breast--the passion of the miser; she wished to hoardevery sixpence as some little provision for her children. What was theuse of her feeding a lamp nearly extinguished, and which was fated to besoon broken up and cast amidst the vast lumber-house of Death? She wouldwillingly have removed into a more homely lodging, but the servant ofthe house had been so fond of Sidney--so kind to him. She clung toone familiar face on which there seemed to live the reflection of herchild's. But she relinquished the first floor for the second; and there, day by day, she felt her eyes grow heavier and heavier beneath theclouds of the last sleep. Besides the aid of Mr. Perkins, a kind enoughman in his way, the good physician whom she had before consulted, still attended her, and refused his fee. Shocked at perceiving that sherejected every little alleviation of her condition, and wishing at leastto procure for her last hours the society of one of her sons, he hadinquired the address of the elder; and on the day preceding the one inwhich Arthur discovered her abode, he despatched to Philip the followingletter:

"SIR:--Being called in to attend your mother in a lingering illness, which I fear may prove fatal, I think it my duty to request you to cometo her as soon as you receive this. Your presence cannot but be a greatcomfort to her. The nature of her illness is such that it is impossibleto calculate exactly how long she may be spared to you; but I am sureher fate might be prolonged, and her remaining days more happy, ifshe could be induced to remove into a better air and a more quietneighbourhood, to take more generous sustenance, and, above all, if hermind could be set more at ease as to your and your brother's prospects. You must pardon me if I have seemed inquisitive; but I have sought todraw from your mother some particulars as to her family and connections, with a wish to represent to them her state of mind. She is, however, very reserved on these points. If, however, you have relations well todo in the world, I think some application to them should be made. I fearthe state of her affairs weighs much upon your poor mother's mind; andI must leave you to judge how far it can be relieved by the good feelingof any persons upon whom she may have legitimate claims. At all events, I repeat my wish that you should come to her forthwith. 

 "I am, &c. "

After the physician had despatched this letter, a sudden and markedalteration for the worse took place in his patient's disorder; and inthe visit he had paid that morning, he saw cause to fear that her hourson earth would be much fewer than he had before anticipated. He had lefther, however, comparatively better; but two hours after his departure, the symptoms of her disease had become very alarming, and thegood-natured servant girl, her sole nurse, and who had, moreover, thewhole business of the other lodgers to attend to, had, as we have seen, thought it necessary to summon the apothecary in the interval that mustelapse before she could reach the distant part of the metropolis inwhich Dr. ---- resided. 

On entering the chamber, Arthur felt all the remorse, which of rightbelonged to his father, press heavily on his soul. What a contrast, thatmean and solitary chamber, and its comfortless appurtenances, to thegraceful and luxurious abode where, full of health and hope, he had lastbeheld her, the mother of Philip Beaufort's children! He remained silenttill Mr. Perkins, after a few questions, retired to send his drugs. Hethen approached the bed; Catherine, though very weak and suffering muchpain, was still sensible. She turned her dim eyes on the young man; butshe did not recognise his features. 

"You do not remember me?" said he, in a voice struggling with tears: "Iam Arthur--Arthur Beaufort. " Catherine made no answer. 

"Good Heavens! Why do I see you here? I believed you with yourfriends--your children provided for--as became my father to do. Heassured me that you were so. " Still no answer. 

And then the young man, overpowered with the feelings of a sympathisingand generous nature, forgetting for a while Catherine's weakness, pouredforth a torrent of inquiries, regrets, and self-upbraidings, whichCatherine at first little heeded. But the name of her children, repeatedagain and again, struck upon that chord which, in a woman's heart, isthe last to break; and she raised herself in her bed, and looked at hervisitor wistfully. 

"Your father, " she said, then--"your father was unlike my Philip; butI see things differently now. For me, all bounty is too late; but mychildren--to-morrow they may have no mother. The law is with you, but not justice! You will be rich and powerful;--will you befriend mychildren?"

"Through life, so help me Heaven!" exclaimed Arthur, falling on hisknees beside the bed. 

What then passed between them it is needless to detail; for it waslittle, save broken repetitions of the same prayer and the sameresponse. But there was so much truth and earnestness in Arthur's voiceand countenance, that Catherine felt as if an angel had come there toadminister comfort. And when late in the day the physician entered, he found his patient leaning on the breast of her young visitor, andlooking on his face with a happy smile. 

The physician gathered enough from the appearance of Arthur and thegossip of Mr. Perkins, to conjecture that one of the rich relations hehad attributed to Catherine was arrived. Alas! for her it was now indeedtoo late!

CHAPTER XI. 

 "D'ye stand amazed?--Look o'er thy head, Maximinian! Look to the terror which overhangs thee. " BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: The Prophetess. 

Phillip had been five weeks in his new home: in another week, he was toenter on his articles of apprenticeship. With a stern, unbending gloomof manner, he had commenced the duties of his novitiate. He submitted toall that was enjoined him. He seemed to have lost for ever the wild andunruly waywardness that had stamped his boyhood; but he was never seento smile--he scarcely ever opened his lips. His very soul seemed to havequitted him with its faults; and he performed all the functions of hissituation with the quiet listless regularity of a machine. Only when thework was done and the shop closed, instead of joining the family circlein the back parlour, he would stroll out in the dusk of the evening, away from the town, and not return till the hour at which the familyretired to rest. Punctual in all he did, he never exceeded that hour. Hehad heard once a week from his mother; and only on the mornings inwhich he expected a letter, did he seem restless and agitated. Tillthe postman entered the shop, he was as pale as death--his handstrembling--his lips compressed. When he read the letter he becamecomposed for Catherine sedulously concealed from her son the state ofher health: she wrote cheerfully, besought him to content himself withthe state into which he had fallen, and expressed her joy that in hisletters he intimated that content; for the poor boy's letters were notless considerate than her own. On her return from her brother, she hadso far silenced or concealed her misgivings as to express satisfactionat the home she had provided for Sidney; and she even held out hopesof some future when, their probation finished and their independencesecured, she might reside with her sons alternately. These hopesredoubled Philip's assiduity, and he saved every shilling of his weeklystipend; and sighed as he thought that in another week his term ofapprenticeship would commence, and the stipend cease. 

Mr. Plaskwith could not but be pleased on the whole with the diligenceof his assistant, but he was chafed and irritated by the sullenness ofhis manner. As for Mrs. Plaskwith, poor woman! she positively detestedthe taciturn and moody boy, who never mingled in the jokes of thecircle, nor played with the children, nor complimented her, nor added, in short, anything to the sociability of the house. Mr. Plimmins, whohad at first sought to condescend, next sought to bully; but thegaunt frame and savage eye of Philip awed the smirk youth, in spite ofhimself; and he confessed to Mrs. Plaskwith that he should not liketo meet "the gipsy, " alone, on a dark night; to which Mrs. Plaskwithreplied, as usual, "that Mr. Plimmins always did say the best things inthe world!"

One morning, Philip was sent a few miles into the country, to assist incataloguing some books in the library of Sir Thomas Champerdown--thatgentleman, who was a scholar, having requested that some one acquaintedwith the Greek character might be sent to him, and Philip being the onlyone in the shop who possessed such knowledge. 

It was evening before he returned. Mr. And Mrs. Plaskwith were both inthe shop as he entered--in fact, they had been employed in talking himover. 

"I can't abide him!" cried Mrs. Plaskwith. "If you choose to take himfor good, I sha'n't have an easy moment. I'm sure the 'prentice that cuthis master's throat at Chatham, last week, was just like him. "

"Pshaw! Mrs. P. , " said the bookseller, taking a huge pinch of snuff, as usual, from his waistcoat pocket. "I myself was reserved when I wasyoung; all reflective people are. I may observe, by the by, that it wasthe case with Napoleon Buonaparte: still, however, I must own he is adisagreeable youth, though he attends to his business. "

"And how fond of money he is!" remarked Mrs. Plaskwith, "he won't buyhimself a new pair of shoes!--quite disgraceful! And did you see what alook he gave Plimmins, when he joked about his indifference to his sole?Plimmins always does say such good things!"

"He is shabby, certainly, " said the bookseller; "but the value of a bookdoes not always depend on the binding. "

"I hope he is honest!" observed Mrs. Plaskwith;--and here Philipentered. 

"Hum, " said Mr. Plaskwith; "you have had a long day's work: but Isuppose it will take a week to finish?"

"I am to go again to-morrow morning, sir: two days more will concludethe task. "

"There's a letter for you, " cried Mrs. Plaskwith; "you owes me for it. "

"A letter!" It was not his mother's hand--it was a strange writing--hegasped for breath as he broke the seal. It was the letter of thephysician. 

His mother, then, was ill-dying-wanting, perhaps, the necessaries oflife. She would have concealed from him her illness and her poverty. Hisquick alarm exaggerated the last into utter want;--he uttered a cry thatrang through the shop, and rushed to Mr. Plaskwith. 

"Sir, sir! my mother is dying! She is poor, poor, perhapsstarving;--money, money!--lend me money!--ten pounds!--five!--I willwork for you all my life for nothing, but lend me the money!"

"Hoity-toity!" said Mrs. Plaskwith, nudging her husband--"I told youwhat would come of it: it will be 'money or life' next time. "

Philip did not heed or hear this address; but stood immediately beforethe bookseller, his hands clasped--wild impatience in his eyes. Mr. Plaskwith, somewhat stupefied, remained silent. 

"Do you hear me?--are you human?" exclaimed Philip, his emotionrevealing at once all the fire of his character. "I tell you my motheris dying; I must go to her! Shall I go empty-handed! Give me money!"

Mr. Plaskwith was not a bad-hearted man; but he was a formal man, andan irritable one. The tone his shopboy (for so he considered Philip)assumed to him, before his own wife too (examples are very dangerous), rather exasperated than moved him. 

"That's not the way to speak to your master:--you forget yourself, youngman!"

"Forget!--But, sir, if she has not necessaries-if she is starving?"

"Fudge!" said Plaskwith. "Mr. Morton writes me word that he has providedfor your mother! Does he not, Hannah?"

"More fool he, I'm sure, with such a fine family of his own! Don't lookat me in that way, young man; I won't take it--that I won't! I declaremy blood friz to see you!"

"Will you advance me money?--five pounds--only five pounds, Mr. Plaskwith?"

"Not five shillings! Talk to me in this style!--not the man for it, sir!--highly improper. Come, shut up the shop, and recollect yourself;and, perhaps, when Sir Thomas's library is done, I may let you go totown. You can't go to-morrow. All a sham, perhaps; eh, Hannah?"

"Very likely! Consult Plimmins. Better come away now, Mr. P. He lookslike a young tiger. "

Mrs. Plaskwith quitted the shop for the parlour. Her husband, puttinghis hands behind his back, and throwing back his chin, was about tofollow her. Philip, who had remained for the last moment mute and whiteas stone, turned abruptly; and his grief taking rather the tone of ragethan supplication, he threw himself before his master, and, laying hishand on his shoulder, said:

"I leave you--do not let it be with a curse. I conjure you, have mercyon me!"

Mr. Plaskwith stopped; and had Philip then taken but a milder tone, allhad been well. But, accustomed from childhood to command--all his fiercepassions loose within him--despising the very man he thus implored--theboy ruined his own cause. Indignant at the silence of Mr. Plaskwith, and too blinded by his emotions to see that in that silence there wasrelenting, he suddenly shook the little man with a vehemence that almostoverset him, and cried:

"You, who demand for five years my bones and blood--my body and soul--aslave to your vile trade--do you deny me bread for a mother's lips?"

Trembling with anger, and perhaps fear, Mr. Plaskwith extricated himselffrom the gripe of Philip, and, hurrying from the shop, said, as hebanged the door:

"Beg my pardon for this to-night, or out you go to-morrow, neck andcrop! Zounds! a pretty pass the world's come to! I don't believe a wordabout your mother. Baugh!"

Left alone, Philip remained for some moments struggling with hiswrath and agony. He then seized his hat, which he had thrown off onentering--pressed it over his brows--turned to quit the shop--when hiseye fell upon the till. Plaskwith had left it open, and the gleam of thecoin struck his gaze--that deadly smile of the arch tempter. Intellect, reason, conscience--all, in that instant, were confusion and chaos. Hecast a hurried glance round the solitary and darkening room--plunged hishand into the drawer, clutched he knew not what--silver or gold, as itcame uppermost--and burst into a loud and bitter laugh. The laugh itselfstartled him--it did not sound like his own. His face fell, and hisknees knocked together--his hair bristled--he felt as if the very fiendhad uttered that yell of joy over a fallen soul. 

"No--no--no!" he muttered; "no, my mother, --not even for thee!" And, dashing the money to the ground, he fled, like a maniac, from the house. 

At a later hour that same evening, Mr. Robert Beaufort returned from hiscountry mansion to Berkeley Square. He found his wife very uneasy andnervous about the non-appearance of their only son. Arthur had sent homehis groom and horses about seven o'clock, with a hurried scroll, writtenin pencil on a blank page torn from his pocket-book, and containing onlythese words, --

"Don't wait dinner for me--I may not be home for some hours. I have metwith a melancholy adventure. You will approve what I have done when wemeet. "

This note a little perplexed Mr. Beaufort; but, as he was very hungry, he turned a deaf ear both to his wife's conjectures and his ownsurmises, till he had refreshed himself; and then he sent for the groom, and learned that, after the accident to the blind man, Mr. Arthurhad been left at a hosier's in H----. This seemed to him extremelymysterious; and, as hour after hour passed away, and still Arthur camenot, he began to imbibe his wife's fears, which were now wound up almostto hysterics; and just at midnight he ordered his carriage, and takingwith him the groom as a guide, set off to the suburban region. Mrs. Beaufort had wished to accompany him; but the husband observing thatyoung men would be young men, and that there might possibly be a ladyin the case, Mrs. Beaufort, after a pause of thought, passively agreedthat, all things considered, she had better remain at home. No ladyof proper decorum likes to run the risk of finding herself in afalse position. Mr. Beaufort accordingly set out alone. Easy was thecarriage--swift were the steeds--and luxuriously the wealthy man waswhirled along. Not a suspicion of the true cause of Arthur's detentioncrossed him; but he thought of the snares of London--or artful femalesin distress; "a melancholy adventure" generally implies love forthe adventure, and money for the melancholy; and Arthur wasyoung--generous--with a heart and a pocket equally open to imposition. Such scrapes, however, do not terrify a father when he is a man of theworld, so much as they do an anxious mother; and, with more curiositythan alarm, Mr. Beaufort, after a short doze, found himself before theshop indicated. 

Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, the door to the privateentrance was ajar, --a circumstance which seemed very suspicious to Mr. Beaufort. He pushed it open with caution and timidity--a candle placedupon a chair in the narrow passage threw a sickly light over the flightof stairs, till swallowed up by the deep shadow from the sharp anglemade by the ascent. Robert Beaufort stood a moment in some doubt whetherto call, to knock, to recede, or to advance, when a step was heard uponthe stairs above--it came nearer and nearer--a figure emerged from theshadow of the last landing-place, and Mr. Beaufort, to his great joy, recognised his son. 

Arthur did not, however, seem to perceive his father; and was about topass him, when Mr. Beaufort laid his hand on his arm. 

"What means all this, Arthur? What place are you in? How you havealarmed us!"

Arthur cast a look upon his father of sadness and reproach. 

"Father, " he said, in a tone that sounded stern--almost commanding--"Iwill show you where I have been; follow me--nay, I say, follow. "

He turned, without another word re-ascended the stairs; and Mr. Beaufort, surprised and awed into mechanical obedience, did as his sondesired. At the landing-place of the second floor, another long-wicked, neglected, ghastly candle emitted its cheerless ray. It gleamed throughthe open door of a small bedroom to the left, through which Beaufortperceived the forms of two women. One (it was the kindly maidservant)was seated on a chair, and weeping bitterly; the other (it was ahireling nurse, in the first and last day of her attendance) wasunpinning her dingy shawl before she lay down to take a nap. She turnedher vacant, listless face upon the two men, put on a doleful smile, anddecently closed the door. 

"Where are we, I say, Arthur?" repeated Mr. Beaufort. Arthur took hisfather's hand-drew him into a room to the right--and taking up thecandle, placed it on a small table beside a bell, and said, "Here, sir--in the presence of Death!"

Mr. Beaufort cast a hurried and fearful glance on the still, wan, sereneface beneath his eyes, and recognised in that glance the features of theneglected and the once adored Catherine. 

"Yes--she, whom your brother so loved--the mother of his children--diedin this squalid room, and far from her sons, in poverty, in sorrow! diedof a broken heart! Was that well, father? Have you in this nothing torepent?"

Conscience-stricken and appalled, the worldly man sank down on a seatbeside the bed, and covered his face with his hands. 

"Ay, " continued Arthur, almost bitterly--"ay, we, his nearest ofkin--we, who have inherited his lands and gold--we have been thusheedless of the great legacy your brother bequeathed to us:--thethings dearest to him--the woman he loved--the children his death cast, nameless and branded, on the world. Ay, weep, father: and while youweep, think of the future, of reparation. I have sworn to that clayto befriend her sons; join you, who have all the power to fulfil thepromise--join in that vow: and may Heaven not visit on us both the woesof this bed of death!"

"I did not know--I--I--" faltered Mr. Beaufort. 

"But we should have known, " interrupted Arthur, mournfully. "Ah, my dearfather! do not harden your heart by false excuses. The dead still speaksto you, and commends to your care her children. My task here is done: Osir! yours is to come. I leave you alone with the dead. "

So saying, the young man, whom the tragedy of the scene had worked intoa passion and a dignity above his usual character, unwilling to trusthimself farther to his emotions, turned abruptly from the room, fledrapidly down the stairs and left the house. As the carriage and liveriesof his father met his eye, he groaned; for their evidences of comfortand wealth seemed a mockery to the deceased: he averted his face andwalked on. Nor did he heed or even perceive a form that at that instantrushed by him--pale, haggard, breathless--towards the house which he hadquitted, and the door of which he left open, as he had found it--open, as the physician had left it when hurrying, ten minutes before thearrival of Mr. Beaufort, from the spot where his skill was impotent. Wrapped in gloomy thought, alone, and on foot-at that dreary hour, andin that remote suburb--the heir of the Beauforts sought his splendidhome. Anxious, fearful, hoping, the outcast orphan flew on to thedeath-room of his mother. 

Mr. Beaufort, who had but imperfectly heard Arthur's parting accents, lost and bewildered by the strangeness of his situation, did not atfirst perceive that he was left alone. Surprised, and chilled by thesudden silence of the chamber, he rose, withdrew his hands from hisface, and again he saw that countenance so mute and solemn. He cast hisgaze round the dismal room for Arthur; he called his name--no answercame; a superstitious tremor seized upon him; his limbs shook; he sankonce more on his seat, and closed his eyes: muttering, for the firsttime, perhaps, since his childhood, words of penitence and prayer. Hewas roused from this bitter self-abstraction by a deep groan. It seemedto come from the bed. Did his ears deceive him? Had the dead found avoice? He started up in an agony of dread, and saw opposite to him thelivid countenance of Philip Morton: the Son of the Corpse had replacedthe Son of the Living Man! The dim and solitary light fell upon thatcountenance. There, all the bloom and freshness natural to youth seemedblasted! There, on those wasted features, played all the terrible powerand glare of precocious passions, --rage, woe, scorn, despair. Terribleis it to see upon the face of a boy the storm and whirlwind that shouldvisit only the strong heart of man!

"She is dead!--dead! and in your presence!" shouted Philip, with hiswild eyes fixed upon the cowering uncle; "dead with--care, perhaps withfamine. And you have come to look upon your work!"

"Indeed, " said Beaufort, deprecatingly, "I have but just arrived: Idid not know she had been ill, or in want, upon my honour. This is alla--a--mistake: I--I--came in search of--of--another--"

"You did not, then, come to relieve her?" said Philip, very calmly. "Youhad not learned her suffering and distress, and flown hither in the hopethat there was yet time to save her? You did not do this? Ha! ha!--whydid I think it?"

"Did any one call, gentlemen?" said a whining voice at the door; and thenurse put in her head. 

"Yes--yes--you may come in, " said Beaufort, shaking with nameless andcowardly apprehension; but Philip had flown to the door, and, gazing onthe nurse, said, "She is a stranger! see, a stranger! The son now has assumed his post. Begone, woman!" And he pushed her away, and drew the bolt across thedoor. 

And then there looked upon him, as there had looked upon his reluctantcompanion, calm and holy, the face of the peaceful corpse. He burst intotears, and fell on his knees so close to Beaufort that he touched him;he took up the heavy hand, and covered it with burning kisses. 

"Mother! mother! do not leave me! wake, smile once more on your son!I would have brought you money, but I could not have asked for yourblessing, then; mother, I ask it now!"

"If I had but known--if you had but written to me, my dear younggentleman--but my offers had been refused, and--"

"Offers of a hireling's pittance to her; to her for whom my fatherwould have coined his heart's blood into gold! My father's wife!--hiswife!--offers--"

He rose suddenly, folded his arms, and facing Beaufort, with a fiercedetermined brow, said:

"Mark me, you hold the wealth that I was trained from my cradle toconsider my heritage. I have worked with these hands for bread, andnever complained, except to my own heart and soul. I never hated, andnever cursed you--robber as you were--yes, robber! For, even were thereno marriage save in the sight of God, neither my father, nor Nature, nor Heaven, meant that you should seize all, and that there should benothing due to the claims of affection and blood. He was not the lessmy father, even if the Church spoke not on my side. Despoiler of theorphan, and derider of human love, you are not the less a robber thoughthe law fences you round, and men call you honest! But I did not hateyou for this. Now, in the presence of my dead mother--dead, far fromboth her sons--now I abhor and curse you. You may think yourself safewhen you quit this room-safe, and from my hatred you may be so butdo not deceive yourself. The curse of the widow and the orphan shallpursue--it shall cling to you and yours--it shall gnaw your heart in themidst of splendour--it shall cleave to the heritage of your son! Thereshall be a deathbed yet, beside which you shall see the spectre of her, now so calm, rising for retribution from the grave! These words--no, younever shall forget them--years hence they shall ring in your ears, and freeze the marrow of your bones! And now begone, my father'sbrother--begone from my mother's corpse to your luxurious home!"

He opened the door, and pointed to the stairs. Beaufort, without a word, turned from the room and departed. He heard the door closed and lockedas he descended the stairs; but he did not hear the deep groans andvehement sobs in which the desolate orphan gave vent to the anguishwhich succeeded to the less sacred paroxysm of revenge and wrath. 

BOOK II. 

CHAPTER I. 

 "Incubo. Look to the cavalier. What ails he? . . . . . Hostess. And in such good clothes, too!" BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: Love's Pilgrimage. 

 "Theod. I have a brother--there my last hope!. Thus as you find me, without fear or wisdom, I now am only child of Hope and Danger. "--Ibid. 

The time employed by Mr. Beaufort in reaching his home was hauntedby gloomy and confused terrors. He felt inexplicably as if thedenunciations of Philip were to visit less himself than his son. He trembled at the thought of Arthur meeting this strange, wild, exasperated scatterling--perhaps on the morrow--in the very height ofhis passions. And yet, after the scene between Arthur and himself, hesaw cause to fear that he might not be able to exercise a sufficientauthority over his son, however naturally facile and obedient, toprevent his return to the house of death. In this dilemma he resolved, as is usual with cleverer men, even when yoked to yet feebler helpmates, to hear if his wife had anything comforting or sensible to say upon thesubject. Accordingly, on reaching Berkeley Square, he went straightto Mrs. Beaufort; and having relieved her mind as to Arthur's safety, related the scene in which he had been so unwilling an actor. Withthat more lively susceptibility which belongs to most women, howevercomparatively unfeeling, Mrs. Beaufort made greater allowance thanher husband for the excitement Philip had betrayed. Still Beaufort'sdescription of the dark menaces, the fierce countenance, thebrigand-like form, of the bereaved son, gave her very considerableapprehensions for Arthur, should the young men meet; and she willinglycoincided with her husband in the propriety of using all means ofparental persuasion or command to guard against such an encounter. But, in the meanwhile, Arthur returned not, and new fears seized the anxiousparents. He had gone forth alone, in a remote suburb of the metropolis, at a late hour, himself under strong excitement. He might have returnedto the house, or have lost his way amidst some dark haunts of violenceand crime; they knew not where to send, or what to suggest. Day alreadybegan to dawn, and still he came not. A length, towards five o'clock, aloud rap was heard at the door, and Mr. Beaufort, hearing some bustlein the hall, descended. He saw his son borne into the hall froma hackney-coach by two strangers, pale, bleeding, and apparentlyinsensible. His first thought was that he had been murdered by Philip. He uttered a feeble cry, and sank down beside his son. 

"Don't be darnted, sir, " said one of the strangers, who seemed anartisan; "I don't think he be much hurt. You sees he was crossing thestreet, and the coach ran against him; but it did not go over his head;it be only the stones that makes him bleed so: and that's a mercy. "

"A providence, sir, " said the other man; "but Providence watches over usall, night and day, sleep or wake. Hem! We were passing at the time fromthe meeting--the Odd Fellows, sir--and so we took him, and got him acoach; for we found his card in his pocket. He could not speak justthen; but the rattling of the coach did him a deal of good, for hegroaned--my eyes! how he groaned! did he not, Burrows?"

"It did one's heart good to hear him. "

"Run for Astley Cooper--you--go to Brodie. Good Heavens! he is dying. Bequick--quick!" cried Mr. Beaufort to his servants, while Mrs. Beaufort, who had now gained the spot, with greater presence of mind had Arthurconveyed into a room. 

"It is a judgment upon me, " groaned Beaufort, rooted to the stone of hishall, and left alone with the strangers. "No, sir, it is not a judgment, it is a providence, " said the more sanctimonious and better dressed ofthe two men "for, put the question, if it had been a judgment, the wheelwould have gone over him--but it didn't; and, whether he dies or not, Ishall always say that if that's not a providence, I don't know what is. We have come a long way, sir; and Burrows is a poor man, though I'm wellto do. "

This hint for money restored Beaufort to his recollection; he put hispurse into the nearest hand outstretched to clutch it, and mutteredforth something like thanks. 

"Sir, may the Lord bless you! and I hope the young gentleman will dowell. I am sure you have cause to be thankful that he was within aninch of the wheel; was he not, Burrows? Well, it's enough to convert aheathen. But the ways of Providence are mysterious, and that's the truthof it. Good night, sir. "

Certainly it did seem as if the curse of Philip was already at its work. An accident almost similar to that which, in the adventure of the blindman, had led Arthur to the clue of Catherine, within twenty-four hoursstretched Arthur himself upon his bed. The sorrow Mr. Beaufort had notrelieved was now at his own hearth. But there were parents and nurses, and great physicians, and skilful surgeons, and all the army thatcombine against Death, and there were ease, and luxury, and kind eyes, and pitying looks, and all that can take the sting from pain. And thus, the very night on which Catherine had died, broken down, and worn out, upon a strange breast, with a feeless doctor, and by the ray of a singlecandle, the heir to the fortunes once destined to her son wrestled alsowith the grim Tyrant, who seemed, however, scared from his prey by thearts and luxuries which the world of rich men raises up in defiance ofthe grave. 

Arthur, was, indeed, very seriously injured; one of his ribs was broken, and he had received two severe contusions on the head. To insensibilitysucceeded fever, followed by delirium. He was in imminent dangerfor several days. If anything could console his parents for such anaffliction, it was the thought that, at least, he was saved from thechance of meeting Philip. 

Mr. Beaufort, in the instinct of that capricious and fluctuatingconscience which belongs to weak minds, which remains still, anddrooping, and lifeless, as a flag on a masthead during the calm ofprosperity, but flutters, and flaps, and tosses when the wind blows andthe wave heaves, thought very acutely and remorsefully of the conditionof the Mortons, during the danger of his own son. So far, indeed, fromhis anxiety for Arthur monopolising all his care, it only sharpened hischarity towards the orphans; for many a man becomes devout and good whenhe fancies he has an Immediate interest in appeasing Providence. The morning after Arthur's accident, he sent for Mr. Blackwell. Hecommissioned him to see that Catherine's funeral rites were performedwith all due care and attention; he bade him obtain an interviewwith Philip, and assure the youth of Mr. Beaufort's good and friendlydisposition towards him, and to offer to forward his views in any courseof education he might prefer, or any profession he might adopt; and heearnestly counselled the lawyer to employ all his tact and delicacyin conferring with one of so proud and fiery a temper. Mr. Blackwell, however, had no tact or delicacy to employ: he went to the houseof mourning, forced his way to Philip, and the very exordium of hisharangue, which was devoted to praises of the extraordinary generosityand benevolence of his employer, mingled with condescending admonitionstowards gratitude from Philip, so exasperated the boy, that Mr. Blackwell was extremely glad to get out of the house with a whole skin. He, however, did not neglect the more formal part of his mission; butcommunicated immediately with a fashionable undertaker, and gave ordersfor a very genteel funeral. He thought after the funeral that Philipwould be in a less excited state of mind, and more likely to hearreason; he, therefore, deferred a second interview with the orphan tillafter that event; and, in the meanwhile, despatched a letter to Mr. Beaufort, stating that he had attended to his instructions; that theorders for the funeral were given; but that at present Mr. PhilipMorton's mind was a little disordered, and that he could not calmlydiscuss the plans for the future suggested by Mr. Beaufort. He didnot doubt, however, that in another interview all would be arrangedaccording to the wishes his client had so nobly conveyed to him. Mr. Beaufort's conscience on this point was therefore set at rest. It wasa dull, close, oppressive morning, upon which the remains of CatherineMorton were consigned to the grave. With the preparations for thefuneral Philip did not interfere; he did not inquire by whose orders allthat solemnity of mutes, and coaches, and black plumes, and crape bands, was appointed. If his vague and undeveloped conjecture ascribed thislast and vain attention to Robert Beaufort, it neither lessened thesullen resentment he felt against his uncle, nor, on the other hand, didhe conceive that he had a right to forbid respect to the dead, though hemight reject service for the survivor. Since Mr. Blackwell's visit, hehad remained in a sort of apathy or torpor, which seemed to the peopleof the house to partake rather of indifference than woe. 

The funeral was over, and Philip had returned to the apartments occupiedby the deceased; and now, for the first time, he set himself to examinewhat papers, &c. , she had left behind. In an old escritoire, he found, first, various packets of letters in his father's handwriting, thecharacters in many of them faded by time. He opened a few; they werethe earliest love-letters. He did not dare to read above a few lines; somuch did their living tenderness, and breathing, frank, hearty passion, contrast with the fate of the adored one. In those letters, the veryheart of the writer seemed to beat! Now both hearts alike were stilled!And GHOST called vainly unto GHOST!

He came, at length, to a letter in his mother's hand, addressed tohimself, and dated two days before her death. He went to the window andgasped in the mists of the sultry air for breath. Below were heard thenoises of London; the shrill cries of itinerant vendors, the rollingcarts, the whoop of boys returned for a while from school. Amidst allthese rose one loud, merry peal of laughter, which drew his attentionmechanically to the spot whence it came; it was at the threshold ofa public-house, before which stood the hearse that had conveyed hismother's coffin, and the gay undertakers, halting there to refreshthemselves. He closed the window with a groan, retired to the farthestcorner of the room, and read as follows:

"MY DEAREST PHILIP, --When you read this, I shall be no more. You andpoor Sidney will have neither father nor mother, nor fortune, nor name. Heaven is more just than man, and in Heaven is my hope for you. You, Philip, are already past childhood; your nature is one formed, I think, to wrestle successfully with the world. Guard against your own passions, and you may bid defiance to the obstacles that will beset your path inlife. And lately, in our reverses, Philip, you have so subdued thosepassions, so schooled the pride and impetuosity of your childhood, thatI have contemplated your prospects with less fear than I used to do, even when they seemed so brilliant. Forgive me, my dear child, if I haveconcealed from you my state of health, and if my death be a suddenand unlooked-for shock. Do not grieve for me too long. For myself, my release is indeed escape from the prison-house and the chain--frombodily pain and mental torture, which may, I fondly hope, prove someexpiation for the errors of a happier time. For I did err, when, evenfrom the least selfish motives, I suffered my union with your father toremain concealed, and thus ruined the hopes of those who had rights uponme equal even to his. But, O Philip! beware of the first false stepsinto deceit; beware, too, of the passions, which do not betray theirfruit till years and years after the leaves that look so green and theblossoms that seem so fair. 

"I repeat my solemn injunction--Do not grieve for me; but strengthenyour mind and heart to receive the charge that I now confide to you--mySidney, my child, your brother! He is so soft, so gentle, he has been sodependent for very life upon me, and we are parted now for the first andlast time. He is with strangers; and--and--O Philip, Philip! watchover him for the love you bear, not only to him, but to me! Be to him afather 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 notyour 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 thisheart beats as I write to you, if you could conceive what comfort Itake for him from my confidence in you, you would feel a new spirit--myspirit--my mother-spirit of love, and forethought, and vigilance, enterinto 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 himthink unkindly of me in the days to come, for he is a child now, andthey 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 maycurse those who gave him birth. Forgive me all this, Philip, my son, andheed it well. 

"And now, where you find this letter, you will see a key; it opens awell in the bureau in which I have hoarded my little savings. You willsee that I have not died in poverty. Take what there is; young as youare, you may want it more now than hereafter. But hold it in trust foryour brother as well as yourself. If he is harshly treated (and you willgo and see him, and you will remember that he would writhe under whatyou might scarcely feel), or if they overtask him (he is so young towork), yet it may find him a home near you. God watch over and guard youboth! 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, andprayed. 

CHAPTER II. 

 "His curse! Dost comprehend what that word means? Shot from a father's angry breath. " JAMES SHIRLEY: The Brothers. 

 "This term is fatal, and affrights me. "--Ibid. 

 "Those fond philosophers that magnify Our human nature. .. .. . Conversed but little with the world-they knew not The fierce vexation of community!"--Ibid. 

After he had recovered his self-possession, Philip opened the well ofthe bureau, and was astonished and affected to find that Catherine hadsaved more than L100. Alas! how much must she have pinched herselfto have hoarded this little treasure! After burning his father'slove-letters, and some other papers, which he deemed useless, he madeup 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 thekind servant, and recalling the grief that she had manifested for hismother since he had been in the house, he placed two sovereigns in herhand. "And now, " said he, as the servant wept while he spoke, "now I canbear 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. "Yousee the gentleman had been with her all the day, and she was much moreeasy 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 downas the clock struck two. But the young, soft-spoken gentleman who camein the morning, and said as how he was a relation. He stayed with hertill she slept; and, when she woke, she smiled in his face--I shallnever forget that smile--for I was standing on the other side, asit might be here, and the doctor was by the window, pouring out thedoctor'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 didnot speak. And the gentleman asked her how she felt, and she took bothhis hands and kissed them; and then he put his arms round and raised herup to take the physic like, and she said then, 'You will never forgetthem?' 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, andcried very bitterly; he took on more than you did, sir. "

"And the other gentleman came just as he was a-going, and they did notseem to like each other; for I heard him through the wall, as nurse andI were in the next room, speak as if he was scolding; but he did notstay long. "

"And has never been seen since?"

"No, sir. Perhaps missus can tell you more about him. But won't you takesomething, sir? Do--you look so pale. "

Philip, without speaking, pushed her gently aside, and went slowly downthe stairs. He entered the parlour, where two or three children wereseated, playing at dominoes; he despatched one for their mother, themistress of the shop, who came in, and dropped him a courtesy, with avery grave, sad face, as was proper. 

"I am going to leave your house, ma'am; and I wish to settle any littlearrears of rent, &c. "

"O sir! don't mention it, " said the landlady; and, as she spoke, shetook a piece of paper from her bosom, very neatly folded, and laid it onthe table. "And here, sir, " she added, taking from the same depositorya 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, thathe would wait on you to-morrow at eleven o'clock. So I hope you won't goyet: 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'sInn. " His brow grew dark--he let the card fall on the ground, put hisfoot on it with a quiet scorn, and muttered to himself, "The lawyershall not bribe me out of my curse!" He turned to the total of thebill--not heavy, for poor Catherine had regularly defrayed the expenseof her scanty maintenance and humble lodging--paid the money, and, asthe landlady wrote the receipt, he asked, "Who was the gentleman--theyounger 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 hewas some relation. Very odd he has never been since. But he'll be sureto call again, sir; you had much better stay here. "

"No: it does not signify. All that he could do is done. But stay, givehim this note, if she should call. "

Philip, taking the pen from the landlady's hand, hastily wrote (whileMrs. 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 relationsso kind. But, whoever you be, you soothed her last hours--she died inyour arms; and if ever--years, long years hence--we should chance tomeet, and I can do anything to aid another, my blood, and my life, andmy heart, and my soul, all are slaves to your will. If you be reallyof 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 asa guardian angel. As for me, I ask no help from any one: I go intothe world and will carve out my own way. So much do I shrink from thethought of charity from others, that I do not believe I could bless youas I do now if your kindness to me did not close with the stone upon mymother'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 youwould send for him, he would be most happy to call on you, and give youany advice. "

"Very well. "

"And what shall I say to Mr. Blackwell?"

"That he may tell his employer to remember our last interview. "

With that Philip took up his bundle and strode from the house. He wentfirst to the churchyard, where his mother's remains had been that dayinterred. It was near at hand, a quiet, almost a rural, spot. The gatestood ajar, for there was a public path through the churchyard, andPhilip entered with a noiseless tread. It was then near evening; the sunhad broken out from the mists of the earlier day, and the wistering raysshone bright and holy upon the solemn place. 

"Mother! mother!" sobbed the orphan, as he fell prostrate before thatfresh green mound: "here--here I have come to repeat my oath, to swearagain that I will be faithful to the charge you have entrusted to yourwretched son! And at this hour I dare ask if there be on this earth onemore miserable and forlorn?"

As words to this effect struggled from his lips, a loud, shrillvoice--the cracked, painful voice of weak age wrestling with strongpassion, rose close at hand. 

"Away, reprobate! thou art accursed!"

Philip started, and shuddered as if the words were addressed to himself, and from the grave. But, as he rose on his knee, and tossing thewild hair from his eyes, looked confusedly round, he saw, at a shortdistance, and in the shadow of the wall, two forms; the one, an old manwith grey hair, who was seated on a crumbling wooden tomb, facing thesetting sun; the other, a man apparently yet in the vigour of life, who appeared bent as in humble supplication. The old man's hands wereoutstretched over the head of the younger, as if suiting terrible actionto the terrible words, and, after a moment's pause--a moment, but itseemed far longer to Philip--there was heard a deep, wild, ghastly howlfrom a dog that cowered at the old man's feet; a howl, perhaps of fearat the passion of his master, which the animal might associate withdanger. 

"Father! father!" said the suppliant reproachfully, "your very dogrebukes your curse. "

"Be dumb! My dog! What hast thou left me on earth but him? Thou hastmade me loathe the sight of friends, for thou hast made me loathe mineown name. Thou hast covered it with disgrace, --thou hast turned mineold age into a by-word, --thy crimes leave me solitary in the midst of myshame!"

"It is many years since we met, father; we may never meet again--shallwe part thus?"

"Thus, aha!" said the old man in a tone of withering sarcasm! "Icomprehend, --you are come for money!"

At this taunt the son started as if stung by a serpent; raised his headto its full height, folded his arms, and replied:

"Sir, you wrong me: for more than twenty years I have maintainedmyself--no matter how, but without taxing you;--and now, I felt remorsefor having suffered you to discard me, --now, when you are old andhelpless, and, I heard, blind: and you might want aid, even from yourpoor good-for-nothing son. But I have done. Forget, --not my sins, butthis interview. Repeal your curse, father; I have enough on my headwithout yours; and so--let the son at least bless the father who curseshim. Farewell!"

The speaker turned as he thus said, with a voice that trembled at theclose, and brushed rapidly by Philip, whom he did not, however, appearto perceive; but Philip, by the last red beam of the sun, saw again thatmarked storm-beaten face which it was difficult, once seen, to forget, and recognised the stranger on whose breast he had slept the night ofhis fatal visit to R----. 

The old man's imperfect vision did not detect the departure of his son, but his face changed and softened as the latter strode silently throughthe rank grass. 

"William!" he said at last, gently; "William!" and the tears rolleddown his furrowed cheeks; "my son!" but that son was gone--the old manlistened for reply--none came. "He has left me--poor William!--we shallnever meet again;" and he sank once more on the old tombstone, dumb, rigid, motionless--an image of Time himself in his own domain of Graves. The dog crept closer to his master, and licked his hand. Philip stoodfor a moment in thoughtful silence: his exclamation of despair had beenanswered as by his better angel. There was a being more miserable thanhimself; and the Accursed would have envied the Bereaved!

The twilight had closed in; the earliest star--the star of Memory andLove, the Hesperus hymned by every poet since the world began--was fairin the arch of heaven, as Philip quitted the spot, with a spirit morereconciled to the future, more softened, chastened, attuned to gentleand pious thoughts than perhaps ever yet had made his soul dominantover the deep and dark tide of his gloomy passions. He went thence toa neighbouring sculptor, and paid beforehand for a plain tablet to beplaced above the grave he had left. He had just quitted that shop, inthe same street, not many doors removed from the house in which hismother had breathed her last. He was pausing by a crossing, irresolutewhether to repair at once to the home assigned to Sidney, or to seeksome shelter in town for that night, when three men who were on theopposite side of the way suddenly caught sight of him. 

"There he is--there he is! Stop, sir!--stop!"

Philip heard these words, looked up, and recognised the voice and theperson of Mr. Plaskwith; the bookseller was accompanied by Mr. Plimmins, and a sturdy, ill-favoured stranger. 

A nameless feeling of fear, rage, and disgust seized the unhappy boy, and at the same moment a ragged vagabond whispered to him, "Stump it, mycove; that's a Bow Street runner. "

Then there shot through Philip's mind the recollection of the money hehad seized, though but to dash away; was he now--he, still to his ownconviction, the heir of an ancient and spotless name--to be hunted as athief; or, at the best, what right over his person and his liberty hadhe given to his taskmaster? Ignorant of the law--the law only seemed tohim, as it ever does to the ignorant and the friendless--a Foe. Quickerthan lightning these thoughts, which it takes so many words to describe, flashed through the storm and darkness of his breast; and at the veryinstant that Mr. Plimmins had laid hands on his shoulder his resolutionwas formed. The instinct of self beat loud at his heart. With a bound--aspring that sent Mr. Plimmins sprawling in the kennel, he darted acrossthe road, and fled down an opposite lane. 

"Stop him! stop!" cried the bookseller, and the officer rushed afterhim with almost equal speed. Lane after lane, alley after alley, fledPhilip; dodging, winding, breathless, panting; and lane after lane, andalley after alley, thickened at his heels the crowd that pursued. Theidle and the curious, and the officious, --ragged boys, ragged men, fromstall and from cellar, from corner and from crossing, joined in thatdelicious chase, which runs down young Error till it sinks, too often, at the door of the gaol or the foot of the gallows. But Philip slackenednot his pace; he began to distance his pursuers. He was now in a streetwhich they had not yet entered--a quiet street, with few, if any, shops. Before the threshold of a better kind of public-house, or rather tavern, to judge by its appearance, lounged two men; and while Philip flew on, the cry of "Stop him!" had changed as the shout passed to new voices, into "Stop the thief!"--that cry yet howled in the distance. One of theloungers seized him: Philip, desperate and ferocious, struck at him withall his force; but the blow was scarcely felt by that Herculean frame. 

"Pish!" said the man, scornfully; "I am no spy; if you run from justice, I would help you to a sign-post. "

Struck by the voice, Philip looked hard at the speaker. It was the voiceof the Accursed Son. 

"Save me! you remember me?" said the orphan, faintly. "Ah! I think I do;poor lad! Follow me-this way!" The stranger turned within the tavern, passed the hall through a sort of corridor that led into a back yardwhich opened upon a nest of courts or passages. 

"You are safe for the present; I will take you where you can tell me allat your ease--See!" As he spoke they emerged into an open street, and the guide pointed to a row of hackney coaches. "Be quick--get in. Coachman, drive fast to ---"

Philip did not hear the rest of the direction. 

Our story returns to Sidney. 

CHAPTER III. 

 "Nous vous mettrons a couvert, Repondit le pot de fer Si quelque matiere dure Vous menace d'aventure, Entre deux je passerai, Et du coup vous sauverai. . .. .. .. . Le pot de terre en souffre!"--LA FONTAINE. 

 ["We, replied the Iron Pot, will shield you: should any hard substance menace you with danger, I'll intervene, and save you from the shock. . .. .. .. .. The Earthen Pot was the sufferer!]

"SIDNEY, come here, sir! What have you been at? you have torn your frillinto tatters! How did you do this? Come sir, no lies. "

"Indeed, ma'am, it was not my fault. I just put my head out of thewindow to see the coach go by, and a nail caught me here. "

"Why, you little plague! you have scratched yourself--you are always inmischief. What business had you to look after the coach?"

"I don't know, " said Sidney, hanging his head ruefully. "La, mother!" cried the youngest of the cousins, a square-built, ruddy, coarse-featured urchin, about Sidney's age, "La, mother, he never see acoach in the street when we are at play but he runs arter it. "

"After, not arter, " said Mr. Roger Morton, taking the pipe from hismouth. 

"Why do you go after the coaches, Sidney?" said Mrs. Morton; "it is verynaughty; you will be run over some day. "

"Yes, ma'am, " said Sidney, who during the whole colloquy had beentrembling from bead to foot. 

"'Yes ma'am, ' and 'no, ma'am:' you have no more manners than a cobbler'sboy. "

"Don't tease the child, my dear; he is crying, " said Mr. Morton, moreauthoritatively than usual. "Come here, my man!" and the worthy uncletook him in his lap and held his glass of brandy-and-water to his lips;Sidney, too frightened to refuse, sipped hurriedly, keeping his largeeyes fixed on his aunt, as children do when they fear a cuff. 

"You spoil the boy more than do your own flesh and blood, " said Mrs. Morton, greatly displeased. 

Here Tom, the youngest-born before described, put his mouth to hismother's ear, and whispered loud enough to be heard by all: "He runsarter the coach 'cause he thinks his ma may be in it. Who's home-sick, Ishould like to know? Ba! Baa!"

The boy pointed his finger over his mother's shoulder, and the otherchildren burst into a loud giggle. 

"Leave the room, all of you, --leave the room!" said Mr. Morton, risingangrily and stamping his foot. 

The children, who were in great awe of their father, huddled and hustledeach other to the door; but Tom, who went last, bold in his mother'sfavour, popped his head through the doorway, and cried, "Good-bye, little home-sick!"

A sudden slap in the face from his father changed his chuckle into avery different kind of music, and a loud indignant sob was heard withoutfor some moments after the door was closed. 

"If that's the way you behave to your children, Mr. Morton, I vow yousha'n't have any more if I can help it. Don't come near me--don't touchme!" and Mrs. Morton assumed the resentful air of offended beauty. 

"Pshaw!" growled the spouse, and he reseated himself and resumed hispipe. There was a dead silence. Sidney crouched near his uncle, lookingvery pale. Mrs. Morton, who was knitting, knitted away with the excitedenergy of nervous irritation. 

"Ring the bell, Sidney, " said Mr. Morton. The boy obeyed-theparlour-maid entered. "Take Master Sidney to his room; keep the boysaway from him, and give him a large slice of bread and jam, Martha. "

"Jam, indeed!--treacle, " said Mrs. Morton. 

"Jam, Martha, " repeated the uncle, authoritatively. "Treacle!"reiterated the aunt. 

"Jam, I say!"

"Treacle, you hear: and for that matter, Martha has no jam to give!"

The husband had nothing more to say. 

"Good night, Sidney; there's a good boy, go and kiss your aunt and makeyour bow; and I say, my lad, don't mind those plagues. I'll talk to themto-morrow, that I will; no one shall be unkind to you in my house. "

Sidney muttered something, and went timidly up to Mrs. Morton. His lookso gentle and subdued; his eyes full of tears; his pretty mouth which, though silent, pleaded so eloquently; his willingness to forgive, andhis wish to be forgiven, might have melted many a heart harder, perhaps, than Mrs. Morton's. But there reigned what are worse thanhardness, --prejudice and wounded vanity--maternal vanity. His contrastto her own rough, coarse children grated on her, and set the teeth ofher mind on edge. 

"There, child, don't tread on my gown: you are so awkward: say yourprayers, and don't throw off the counterpane! I don't like slovenlyboys. "

Sidney put his finger in his mouth, drooped, and vanished. 

"Now, Mrs. M. , " said Mr. Morton, abruptly, and knocking out the ashesof his pipe; "now Mrs. M. , one word for all: I have told you that Ipromised poor Catherine to be a father to that child, and it goes to myheart to see him so snubbed. Why you dislike him I can't guess for thelife of me. I never saw a sweeter-tempered child. "

"Go on, sir, go on: make your personal reflections on your own lawfulwife. They don't hurt me--oh no, not at all! Sweet-tempered, indeed; Isuppose your own children are not sweet-tempered?"

"That's neither here nor there, " said Mr. Morton: "my own children aresuch as God made them, and I am very well satisfied. "

"Indeed you may be proud of such a family; and to think of the pains Ihave taken with them, and how I have saved you in nurses, and the badtimes I have had; and now, to find their noses put out of joint by thatlittle mischief-making interloper--it is too bad of you, Mr. Morton; youwill break my heart--that you will!"

Mrs. Morton put her handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed. The husband wasmoved: he got up and attempted to take her hand. "Indeed, Margaret, Idid not mean to vex you. "

"And I who have been such a fa--fai--faithful wi--wi--wife, and broughtyou such a deal of mon--mon--money, and always stud--stud--studied yourinterests; many's the time when you have been fast asleep that I havesat up half the night--men--men--mending the house linen; and you havenot been the same man, Roger, since that boy came!"

"Well, well" said the good man, quite overcome, and fairly taking herround the waist and kissing her; "no words between us; it makes lifequite unpleasant. If it pains you to have Sidney here, I will put himto some school in the town, where they'll be kind to him. Only, ifyou would, Margaret, for my sake--old girl! come, now! there's adarling!--just be more tender with him. You see he frets so after hismother. Think how little Tom would fret if he was away from you! Poorlittle Tom!"

"La! Mr. Morton, you are such a man!--there's no resisting your ways!You know how to come over me, don't you?"

And Mrs. Morton smiled benignly, as she escaped from his conjugal armsand smoothed her cap. 

Peace thus restored, Mr. Morton refilled his pipe, and the good lady, after a pause, resumed, in a very mild, conciliatory tone:

"I'll tell you what it is, Roger, that vexes me with that there child. He is so deceitful, and he does tell such fibs!"

"Fibs! that is a very bad fault, " said Mr. Morton, gravely. "That mustbe corrected. "

"It was but the other day that I saw him break a pane of glass in theshop; and when I taxed him with it, he denied it;--and with such a face!I can't abide storytelling. "

"Let me know the next story he tells; I'll cure him, " said Mr. Morton, sternly. "You now how I broke Tom of it. Spare the rod, and spoil thechild. And where I promised to be kind to the boy, of course I did notmean that I was not to take care of his morals, and see that he grew upan honest man. Tell truth and shame the devil--that's my motto. "

"Spoke like yourself, Roger, " said Mrs. Morton, with great animation. "But you see he has not had the advantage of such a father as you. Iwonder your sister don't write to you. Some people make a great fussabout their feelings; but out of sight out of mind. "

"I hope she is not ill. Poor Catherine! she looked in a very bad waywhen she was here, " said Morton; and he turned uneasily to the fireplaceand sighed. 

Here the servant entered with the supper-tray, and the conversation fellupon other topics. 

Mrs. Roger Morton's charge against Sidney was, alas! too true. He hadacquired, under that roof, a terrible habit of telling stories. He hadnever incurred that vice with his mother, because then and there he hadnothing to fear; now, he had everything to fear;--the grim aunt--eventhe quiet, kind, cold, austere uncle--the apprentices--the strangeservants--and, oh! more than all, those hardeyed, loud-laughingtormentors, the boys of his own age! Naturally timid, severity made himactually a coward; and when the nerves tremble, a lie sounds as surelyas, when I vibrate that wire, the bell at the end of it will ring. Beware of the man who has been roughly treated as a child. 

The day after the conference just narrated, Mr. Morton, who was subjectto erysipelas, had taken a little cooling medicine. He breakfasted, therefore, later than usual--after the rest of the family; and at thismeal pour lui soulager he ordered the luxury of a muffin. Now it sochanced that he had only finished half the muffin, and drunk one cupof tea, when he was called into the shop by a customer of greatimportance--a prosy old lady, who always gave her orders with remarkableprecision, and who valued herself on a character for affability, whichshe maintained by never buying a penny riband without asking the shopmanhow all his family were, and talking news about every other family inthe place. At the time Mr. Morton left the parlour, Sidney and MasterTom were therein, seated on two stools, and casting up division sumson their respective slates--a point of education to which Mr. Mortonattended with great care. As soon as his father's back was turned, Master Tom's eyes wandered from the slate to the muffin, as it leeredat him from the slop-basin. Never did Pythian sibyl, seated above thebubbling spring, utter more oracular eloquence to her priest, thandid that muffin--at least the parts of it yet extant--utter to thefascinated senses of Master Tom. First he sighed; then he moved roundon his stool; then he got up; then he peered at the muffin from arespectful distance; then he gradually approached, and walked round, andround, and round it--his eyes getting bigger and bigger; then he peepedthrough the glass-door into the shop, and saw his father busily engagedwith the old lady; then he began to calculate and philosophise, perhapshis father had done breakfast; perhaps he would not come back at all; ifhe came back, he would not miss one corner of the muffin; and if hedid miss it, why should Tom be supposed to have taken it? As he thuscommuned with himself, he drew nearer into the fatal vortex, and at lastwith a desperate plunge, he seized the triangular temptation, --

 "And ere a man had power to say 'Behold!' The jaws of Thomas had devoured it up. "

Sidney, disturbed from his studies by the agitation of his companion, witnessed this proceeding with great and conscientious alarm. "O Tom!"said he, "what will your papa say?"

"Look at that!" said Tom, putting his fist under Sidney's reluctantnose. "If father misses it, you'll say the cat took it. If you don't--myeye, what a wapping I'll give you!"

Here Mr. Morton's voice was heard wishing the lady "Good morning!" andMaster Tom, thinking it better to leave the credit of the inventionsolely to Sidney, whispered, "Say I'm gone up stairs for mypocket-hanker, " and hastily absconded. 

Mr. Morton, already in a very bad humour, partly at the effects of thecooling medicine, partly at the suspension of his breakfast, stalkedinto the parlour. His tea-the second cup already poured out, was cold. He turned towards the muffin, and missed the lost piece at a glance. 

"Who has been at my muffin?" said he, in a voice that seemed to Sidneylike the voice he had always supposed an ogre to possess. "Have you, Master Sidney?"

"N--n--no, sir; indeed, sir!"

"Then Tom has. Where is he?"

"Gone up stairs for his handkerchief, sir. "

"Did he take my muffin? Speak the truth!"

"No, sir; it was the--it was the--the cat, sir!"

"O you wicked, wicked boy!" cried Mrs. Morton, who had followed herhusband into the parlour; "the cat kittened last night, and is locked upin the coal-cellar!"

"Come here, Master Sidney! No! first go down, Margaret, and see if thecat is in the cellar: it might have got out, Mrs. M. , " said Mr. Morton, just even in his wrath. 

Mrs. Morton went, and there was a dead silence, except indeed inSidney's heart, which beat louder than a clock ticks. Mr. Morton, meanwhile, went to a little cupboard;--while still there, Mrs. Mortonreturned: the cat was in the cellar--the key turned on her--in no moodto eat muffins, poor thing!--she would not even lap her milk! like hermistress, she had had a very bad time!

"Now come here, sir, " said Mr. Morton, withdrawing himself from thecupboard, with a small horsewhip in his hand, "I will teach you how tospeak the truth in future! Confess that you have told a lie!"

"Yes, sir, it was a lie! Pray--pray forgive me: but Tom made me!"

"What! when poor Tom is up-stairs? worse and worse!" said Mrs. Morton, lifting up her hands and eyes. "What a viper!"

"For shame, boy, --for shame! Take that--and that--and that--"

Writhing--shrinking, still more terrified than hurt, the poor childcowered beneath the lash. 

"Mamma! mamma!" he cried at last, "Oh, why--why did you leave me?"

At these words Mr. Morton stayed his hand, the whip fell to the ground. 

"Yet it is all for the boy's good, " he muttered. "There, child, I hopethis is the last time. There, you are not much hurt. Zounds, don't cryso!"

"He will alarm the whole street, " said Mrs. Morton; "I never see such achild! Here, take this parcel to Mrs. Birnie's--you know the house--onlynext street, and dry your eyes before you get there. Don't go throughthe shop; this way out. "

She pushed the child, still sobbing with a vehemence that she could notcomprehend, through the private passage into the street, and returned toher husband. 

"You are convinced now, Mr. M. ?"

"Pshaw! ma'am; don't talk. But, to be sure, that's how I cured Tom offibbing. --The tea's as cold as a stone!"

CHAPTER IV. 

 "Le bien nous le faisons: le mal c'est la Fortune. On a toujours raison, le Destin toujours tort. "--LA FONTAINE. 

 [The Good, we effect ourselves; the Evil is the handiwork of Fortune. Mortals are always in the right, Destiny always in the wrong. ]

Upon the early morning of the day commemorated by the historical eventsof our last chapter, two men were deposited by a branch coach at theinn of a hamlet about ten miles distant from the town in which Mr. RogerMorton resided. Though the hamlet was small, the inn was large, forit was placed close by a huge finger-post that pointed to three greatroads: one led to the town before mentioned; another to the heart of amanufacturing district; and a third to a populous seaport. The weatherwas fine, and the two travellers ordered breakfast to be taken into anarbour in the garden, as well as the basins and towels necessary forablution. The elder of the travellers appeared to be unequivocallyforeign; you would have guessed him at once for a German. He wore, whatwas then very uncommon in this country, a loose, brown linen blouse, buttoned to the chin, with a leathern belt, into which were stuck aGerman meerschaum and a tobacco-pouch. He had very long flaxen hair, false or real, that streamed half-way down his back, large lightmustaches, and a rough, sunburnt complexion, which made the fairness ofthe hair more remarkable. He wore an enormous pair of green spectacles, and complained much in broken English of the weakness of his eyes. Allabout him, even to the smallest minutiae, indicated the German; not onlythe large muscular frame, the broad feet, and vast though well-shapedhands, but the brooch--evidently purchased of a Jew in some greatfair--stuck ostentatiously and superfluously into his stock; the quaint, droll-looking carpet-bag, which he refused to trust to the boots; andthe great, massive, dingy ring which he wore on his forefinger. Theother was a slender, remarkably upright and sinewy youth, in a bluefrock, over which was thrown a large cloak, a travelling cap, with ashade that concealed all of the upper part of his face, except a darkquick eye of uncommon fire; and a shawl handkerchief, which was equallyuseful in concealing the lower part of the countenance. On descendingfrom the coach, the German with some difficulty made the ostlerunderstand that he wanted a post-chaise in a quarter of an hour; andthen, without entering the house, he and his friend strolled to thearbour. While the maid-servant was covering the table with bread, butter, tea, eggs, and a huge round of beef, the German was busy inwashing his hands, and talking in his national tongue to the young man, who returned no answer. But as soon as the servant had completed heroperations the foreigner turned round, and observing her eyes fixed onhis brooch with much female admiration, he made one stride to her. 

"Der Teufel, my goot Madchen--but you are von var pretty--vat you callit?" and he gave her, as he spoke, so hearty a smack that the girl wasmore flustered than flattered by the courtesy. 

"Keep yourself to yourself, sir!" said she, very tartly, forchambermaids never like to be kissed by a middle-aged gentleman whena younger one is by: whereupon the German replied by a pinch, --it isimmaterial to state the exact spot to which that delicate caress wasdirected. But this last offence was so inexpiable, that the"Madchen" bounced off with a face of scarlet, and a "Sir, you are nogentleman--that's what you arn't!" The German thrust his head out ofthe arbour, and followed her with a loud laugh; then drawing himselfin again, he said in quite another accent, and in excellent English, "There, Master Philip, we have got rid of the girl for the rest ofthe morning, and that's exactly what I wanted to do--women's wits areconfoundedly sharp. Well, did I not tell you right, we have baffled allthe bloodhounds!"

"And here, then, Gawtrey, we are to part, " said Philip, mournfully. 

"I wish you would think better of it, my boy, " returned Mr. Gawtrey, breaking an egg; "how can you shift for yourself--no kith nor kin, noteven that important machine for giving advice called a friend--no, nota friend, when I am gone? I foresee how it must end. [D--- it, saltbutter, by Jove!]"

"If I were alone in the world, as I have told you again and again, perhaps I might pin my fate to yours. But my brother!"

"There it is, always wrong when we act from our feelings. My whole life, which some day or other I will tell you, proves that. Your brother--bah!is he not very well off with his own uncle and aunt?--plenty to eat anddrink, I dare say. Come, man, you must be as hungry as a hawk--a sliceof the beef? Let well alone, and shift for yourself. What good can youdo your brother?"

"I don't know, but I must see him; I have sworn it. "

"Well, go and see him, and then strike across the country to me. I willwait a day for you, --there now!"

"But tell me first, " said Philip, very earnestly, and fixing his darkeyes on his companion, --"tell me--yes, I must speak frankly--tell me, you who would link my fortunes with your own, --tell me, what and who areyou?"

Gawtrey looked up. 

"What do you suppose?" said he, dryly. 

"I fear to suppose anything, lest I wrong you; but the strange place towhich you took me the evening on which you saved me from pursuit, thepersons I met there--"

"Well-dressed, and very civil to you?"

"True! but with a certain wild looseness in their talk that--But I haveno right to judge others by mere appearance. Nor is it this that hasmade me anxious, and, if you will, suspicious. "

"What then?"

"Your dress-your disguise. "

"Disguised yourself!--ha! ha! Behold the world's charity! You flyfrom some danger, some pursuit, disguised--you, who hold yourselfguiltless--I do the same, and you hold me criminal--a robber, perhaps-amurderer it may be! I will tell you what I am: I am a son of Fortune, an adventurer; I live by my wits--so do poets and lawyers, and all thecharlatans of the world; I am a charlatan--a chameleon. 'Each man inhis time plays many parts:' I play any part in which Money, theArch-Manager, promises me a livelihood. Are you satisfied?"

"Perhaps, " answered the boy, sadly, "when I know more of the world, Ishall understand you better. Strange--strange, that you, out of all men, should have been kind to me in distress!"

"Not at all strange. Ask the beggar whom he gets the most pencefrom--the fine lady in her carriage--the beau smelling of eau deCologne? Pish! the people nearest to being beggars themselves keep thebeggar alive. You were friendless, and the man who has all earth fora foe befriends you. It is the way of the world, sir, --the way of theworld. Come, eat while you can; this time next year you may have no beefto your bread. "

Thus masticating and moralising at the same time, Mr. Gawtrey at lastfinished a breakfast that would have astonished the whole Corporationof London; and then taking out a large old watch, with an enamelledback--doubtless more German than its master--he said, as he lifted uphis carpet-bag, "I must be off--tempos fugit, and I must arrive just intime to nick the vessels. Shall get to Ostend, or Rotterdam, safe andsnug; thence to Paris. How my pretty Fan will have grown! Ah, you don'tknow Fan--make you a nice little wife one of these days! Cheer up, man, we shall meet again. Be sure of it; and hark ye, that strange place, asyou call it, where I took you, --you can find it again?"

"Not I. "

"Here, then, is the address. Whenever you want me, go there, ask to seeMr. Gregg--old fellow with one eye, you recollect--shake him by thehand just so--you catch the trick--practise it again. No, the forefingerthus, that's right. Say 'blater, ' no more--'blater;'--stay, I will writeit down for you; and then ask for William Gawtrey's direction. He willgive it you at once, without questions--these signs understood; and ifyou want money for your passage, he will give you that also, with adviceinto the bargain. Always a warm welcome with me. And so take care ofyourself, and good-bye. I see my chaise is at the door. "

As he spoke, Gawtrey shook the young man's hand with cordial vigour, andstrode off to his chaise, muttering, "Money well laid out--fee money; Ishall have him, and, Gad, I like him, --poor devil!"

CHAPTER V. 

 "He is a cunning coachman that can turn well in a narrow room. " Old Play: from Lamb's Specimens. 

 "Here are two pilgrims, And neither knows one footstep of the way. " HEYWOOD's Duchess of Suffolk, Ibid. 

The chaise had scarce driven from the inn-door when a coach stopped tochange horses on its last stage to the town to which Philip was, bound. The name of the destination, in gilt letters on the coach-door, caughthis eye, as he walked from the arbour towards the road, and in a fewmoments he was seated as the fourth passenger in the "Nelson Slow andSure. " From under the shade of his cap, he darted that quick, quietglance, which a man who hunts, or is hunted, --in other words, whoobserves, or shuns, --soon acquires. At his left hand sat a young womanin a cloak lined with yellow; she had taken off her bonnet and pinnedit to the roof of the coach, and looked fresh and pretty in a silkhandkerchief, which she had tied round her head, probably to serve as anightcap during the drowsy length of the journey. Opposite to her wasa middle-aged man of pale complexion, and a grave, pensive, studiousexpression of face; and vis-a-vis to Philip sat an overdressed, showy, very good-looking man of about two or three and forty. This gentlemanwore auburn whiskers, which met at the chin; a foraging cap, with agold tassel; a velvet waistcoat, across which, in various folds, hung agolden chain, at the end of which dangled an eye-glass, that from timeto time he screwed, as it were, into his right eye; he wore, also, ablue silk stock, with a frill much crumpled, dirty kid gloves, and overhis lap lay a cloak lined with red silk. As Philip glanced towards thispersonage, the latter fixed his glass also at him, with a scrutinisingstare, which drew fire from Philip's dark eyes. The man dropped hisglass, and said in a half provincial, half haw-haw tone, like the stageexquisite of a minor theatre, "Pawdon me, and split legs!" therewithstretching himself between Philip's limbs in the approved fashion ofinside passengers. A young man in a white great-coat now came to thedoor with a glass of warm sherry and water. 

"You must take this--you must now; it will keep the cold out, " (the daywas broiling, ) said he to the young woman. 

"Gracious me!" was the answer, "but I never drink wine of a morning, James; it will get into my head. "

"To oblige me!" said the young man, sentimentally; whereupon the younglady took the glass, and looking very kindly at her Ganymede, said, "Your health!" and sipped, and made a wry face--then she looked at thepassengers, tittered, and said, "I can't bear wine!" and so, very slowlyand daintily, sipped up the rest. A silent and expressive squeeze ofthe hand, on returning the glass, rewarded the young man, and proved thesalutary effect of his prescription. 

"All right!" cried the coachman: the ostler twitched the cloths fromthe leaders, and away went the "Nelson Slow and Sure, " with as muchpretension as if it had meant to do the ten miles in an hour. Thepale gentleman took from his waistcoat pocket a little box containinggum-arabic, and having inserted a couple of morsels between his lips, he next drew forth a little thin volume, which from the manner the lineswere printed was evidently devoted to poetry. 

The smart gentleman, who since the episode of the sherry and waterhad kept his glass fixed upon the young lady, now said, with a genteelsmirk:

"That young gentleman seems very auttentive, miss!"

"He is a very good young man, sir, and takes great care of me. "

"Not your brother, miss, --eh?"

"La, sir--why not?"

"No faumily likeness--noice-looking fellow enough! But your oiyes andmouth--ah, miss!"

Miss turned away her head, and uttered with pert vivacity: "I neverlikes compliments, sir! But the young man is not my brother. "

"A sweetheart, --eh? Oh fie, miss! Haw! haw!" and the auburn-whiskeredAdonis poked Philip in the knee with one hand, and the pale gentlemanin the ribs with the other. The latter looked up, and reproachfully; theformer drew in his legs, and uttered an angry ejaculation. 

"Well, sir, there is no harm in a sweetheart, is there?"

"None in the least, ma'am; I advoise you to double the dose. We oftenhear of two strings to a bow. Daun't you think it would be noicer tohave two beaux to your string?" As he thus wittily expressed himself, the gentleman took off his cap, and thrust his fingers through a verycurling and comely head of hair; the young lady looked at him withevident coquetry, and said, "How you do run on, you gentlemen!"

"I may well run on, miss, as long as I run aufter you, " was the gallantreply. 

Here the pale gentleman, evidently annoyed by being talked across, shuthis book up, and looked round. His eye rested on Philip, who, whetherfrom the heat of the day or from the forgetfulness of thought, hadpushed his cap from his brows; and the gentleman, after staring at himfor a few moments with great earnestness, sighed so heavily that itattracted the notice of all the passengers. 

"Are you unwell, sir?" asked the young lady, compassionately. 

"A little pain in my side, nothing more!"

"Chaunge places with me, sir, " cried the Lothario, officiously. "Nowdo!" The pale gentleman, after a short hesitation, and a bashful excuse, accepted the proposal. In a few moments the young lady and the beauwere in deep and whispered conversation, their heads turned towards thewindow. The pale gentleman continued to gaze at Philip, till the latter, perceiving the notice he excited, coloured, and replaced his cap overhis face. 

"Are you going to N----? asked the gentleman, in a gentle, timid voice. 

"Yes!"

"Is it the first time you have ever been there?"

"Sir!" returned Philip, in a voice that spoke surprise and distaste athis neighbour's curiosity. 

"Forgive me, " said the gentleman, shrinking back; "but you remind meof-of--a family I once knew in the town. Do you know--the--the Mortons?"

One in Philip's situation, with, as he supposed, the officers of justicein his track (for Gawtrey, for reasons of his own, rather encouragedthan allayed his fears), might well be suspicious. He replied thereforeshortly, "I am quite a stranger to the town, " and ensconced himself inthe corner, as if to take a nap. Alas! that answer was one of the manyobstacles he was doomed to build up between himself and a fairer fate. 

The gentleman sighed again, and never spoke more to the end of thejourney. When the coach halted at the inn, --the same inn which hadbefore given its shelter to poor Catherine, --the young man in the whitecoat opened the door, and offered his arm to the young lady. 

"Do you make any stay here, sir?" said she to the beau, as she unpinnedher bonnet from the roof. 

"Perhaps so; I am waiting for my phe-a-ton, which my faellow is to bringdown, --tauking a little tour. "

"We shall be very happy to see you, sir!" said the young lady, on whomthe phe-a-ton completed the effect produced by the gentleman's previousgallantries; and with that she dropped into his hand a very neat card, on which was printed, "Wavers and Snow, Staymakers, High Street. "

The beau put the card gracefully into his pocket-leaped from thecoach-nudged aside his rival of the white coat, and offered his arm tothe lady, who leaned on it affectionately as she descended. 

"This gentleman has been so perlite to me, James, " said she. Jamestouched his hat; the beau clapped him on the shoulder, --"Ah! you arenot a hauppy man, --are you? Oh no, not at all a hauppy man!--Good day toyou! Guard, that hat-box is mine!"

While Philip was paying the coachman, the beau passed, and whisperedhim--

"Recollect old Gregg--anything on the lay here--don't spoil my sport ifwe meet!" and bustled off into the inn, whistling "God save the king!"

Philip started, then tried to bring to mind the faces which he had seenat the "strange place, " and thought he recalled the features of hisfellow-traveller. However, he did not seek to renew the acquaintance, but inquired the way to Mr. Morton's house, and thither he nowproceeded. 

He was directed, as a short cut, down one of those narrow passages atthe entrance of which posts are placed as an indication that theyare appropriated solely to foot-passengers. A dead white wall, whichscreened the garden of the physician of the place, ran on one side; ahigh fence to a nursery-ground was on the other; the passage was lonely, for it was now the hour when few persons walk either for business orpleasure in a provincial town, and no sound was heard save the fall ofhis own step on the broad flagstones. At the end of the passage in themain street to which it led, he saw already the large, smart, showyshop, with the hot sum shining full on the gilt letters that conveyedto the eyes of the customer the respectable name of "Morton, "--whensuddenly the silence was broken by choked and painful sobs. He turned, and beneath a compo portico, jutting from the wall, which adorned thephysician's door, he saw a child seated on the stone steps weepingbitterly--a thrill shot through Philip's heart! Did he recognise, disguised as it was by pain and sorrow, that voice? He paused, and laidhis hand on the child's shoulder: "Oh, don't--don't--pray don't--I amgoing, I am indeed:" cried the child, quailing, and still keeping hishands clasped before his face. 

"Sidney!" said Philip. The boy started to his feet, uttered a cry ofrapturous joy, and fell upon his brother's breast. 

"O Philip!--dear, dear Philip! you are come to take me away back to myown--own mamma; I will be so good, I will never tease her again, --never, never! I have been so wretched!"

"Sit down, and tell me what they have done to you, " said Philip, checking the rising heart that heaved at his mother's name. 

So, there they sat, on the cold stone under the stranger's porch, thesetwo orphans: Philip's arms round his brother's waist, Sidney leaningon his shoulder, and imparting to him--perhaps with pardonableexaggeration, all the sufferings he had gone through; and, when he cameto that morning's chastisement, and showed the wale across the littlehands which he had vainly held up in supplication, Philip's passionshook him from limb to limb. His impulse was to march straight intoMr. Morton's shop and gripe him by the throat; and the indignation hebetrayed encouraged Sidney to colour yet more highly the tale of hiswrongs and pain. 

When he had done, and clinging tightly to his brother's broad chest, said--

"But never mind, Philip; now we will go home to mamma. "

Philip replied--

"Listen to me, my dear brother. We cannot go back to our mother. I willtell you why, later. We are alone in the world-we two! If you will comewith me--God help you!--for you will have many hardships: we shall haveto work and drudge, and you may be cold and hungry, and tired, veryoften, Sidney, --very, very often! But you know that, long ago, when Iwas so passionate, I never was wilfully unkind to you; and I declarenow, that I would bite out my tongue rather than it should say a harshword to you. That is all I can promise. Think well. Will you never missall the comforts you have now?"

"Comforts!" repeated Sidney, ruefully, and looking at the wale over hishands. "Oh! let--let--let me go with you, I shall die if I stay here. Ishall indeed--indeed!"

"Hush!" said Philip; for at that moment a step was heard, and the palegentleman walked slowly down the passage, and started, and turned hishead wistfully as he looked at the boys. 

When he was gone. Philip rose. 

"It is settled, then, " said he, firmly. "Come with me at once. You shallreturn to their roof no more. Come, quick: we shall have many miles togo to-night. "

CHAPTER VI. 

 "He comes-- Yet careless what he brings; his one concern Is to conduct it to the destined inn; And having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on-- To him indifferent whether grief or joy. " COWPER: Description of the Postman. 

The pale gentleman entered Mr. Morton's shop; and, looking round him, spied the worthy trader showing shawls to a young lady just married. Heseated himself on a stool, and said to the bowing foreman--

"I will wait till Mr. Morton is disengaged. "

The young lady having closely examined seven shawls, and declared theywere beautiful, said, "she would think of it, " and walked away. Mr. Morton now approached the stranger. 

"Mr. Morton, " said the pale gentleman; "you are very little altered. Youdo not recollect me?"

"Bless me, Mr. Spencer! is it really you? Well, what a time since wemet! I am very glad to see you. And what brings you to N----? Business?"

"Yes, business. Let us go within?"

Mr. Morton led the way to the parlour, where Master Tom, reperchedon the stool, was rapidly digesting the plundered muffin. Mr. Mortondismissed him to play, and the pale gentleman took a chair. 

"Mr. Morton, " said he, glancing over his dress, "you see I am inmourning. It is for your sister. I never got the better of that earlyattachment--never. "

"My sister! Good Heavens!" said Mr. Morton, turning very pale; "is shedead? Poor Catherine!--and I not know of it! When did she die?"

"Not many days since; and--and--" said Mr. Spencer, greatly affected, "Ifear in want. I had been abroad for some months: on my return last week, looking over the newspapers (for I always order them to be filed), Iread the short account of her lawsuit against Mr. Beaufort, some timeback. I resolved to find her out. I did so through the solicitor sheemployed: it was too late; I arrived at her lodgings two days afterher--her burial. I then determined to visit poor Catherine's brother, and learn if anything could be done for the children she had leftbehind. "

"She left but two. Philip, the elder, is very comfortably placed atR----; the younger has his home with me; and Mrs. Morton is a moth--thatis to say, she takes great pains with him. Ehem! And my poor--poorsister!"

"Is he like his mother?"

"Very much, when she was young--poor dear Catherine!"

"What age is he?"

"About ten, perhaps; I don't know exactly; much younger than the other. And so she's dead!"

"Mr. Morton, I am an old bachelor" (here a sickly smile crossed Mr. Spencer's face); "a small portion of my fortune is settled, it is true, on my relations; but the rest is mine, and I live within my income. The elder of these boys is probably old enough to begin to take care ofhimself. But, the younger--perhaps you have a family of your own, andcan spare him!"

Mr. Morton hesitated, and twitched up his trousers. "Why, " said he, "this is very kind in you. I don't know--we'll see. The boy is out now;come and dine with us at two--pot-luck. Well, so she is no more! Heigho!Meanwhile, I'll talk it over with Mrs. M. "

"I will be with you, " said Mr. Spencer, rising. 

"Ah!" sighed Mr. Morton, "if Catherine had but married you she wouldhave been a happy woman. "

"I would have tried to make her so, " said Mr. Spencer, as he turned awayhis face and took his departure. 

Two o'clock came; but no Sidney. They had sent to the place whitherhe had been despatched; he had never arrived there. Mr. Morton grewalarmed; and, when Mr. Spencer came to dinner, his host was gone insearch of the truant. He did not return till three. Doomed that day tobe belated both at breakfast and dinner, this decided him to part withSidney whenever he should be found. Mrs. Morton was persuaded that thechild only sulked, and would come back fast enough when he was hungry. Mr. Spencer tried to believe her, and ate his mutton, which was burnt toa cinder; but when five, six, seven o'clock came, and the boy was stillmissing, --even Mrs. Morton agreed that it was high time to institutea regular search. The whole family set off different ways. It was teno'clock before they were reunited; and then all the news picked up was, that a boy, answering Sidney's description, had been seen with a youngman in three several parts of the town; the last time at the outskirts, on the high road towards the manufacturing districts. These tidings sofar relieved Mr. Morton's mind that he dismissed the chilling fear thathad crept there, --that Sidney might have drowned himself. Boys willdrown themselves sometimes! The description of the young man coincidedso remarkably with the fellow-passenger of Mr. Spencer, that he did notdoubt it was the same; the more so when he recollected having seenhim with a fair-haired child under the portico; and yet more, when herecalled the likeness to Catherine that had struck him in the coach, andcaused the inquiry that had roused Philip's suspicion. The mysterywas thus made clear--Sidney had fled with his brother. Nothing more, however, could be done that night. The next morning, active measuresshould be devised; and when the morning came, the mail brought to Mr. Morton the two following letters. The first was from Arthur Beaufort. 

"SIR, --I have been prevented by severe illness from writing to youbefore. I can now scarcely hold a pen; but the instant my health isrecovered I shall be with you at N ----, on her deathbed, the mother ofthe boy under your charge, Sidney Morton, committed him solemnly tome. I make his fortunes my care, and shall hasten to claim him at yourkindly hands. But the elder son, --this poor Philip, who has suffered sounjustly, --for our lawyer has seen Mr. Plaskwith, and heard the wholestory--what has become of him? All our inquiries have failed to trackhim. Alas, I was too ill to institute them myself while it was yet time. Perhaps he may have sought shelter, with you, his uncle; if so, assurehim that he is in no danger from the pursuit of the law, --that hisinnocence is fully recognised; and that my father and myself implore himto accept our affection. I can write no more now; but in a few days Ishall hope to see you. 

 "I am, sir, &c. , "ARTHUR BEAUFORT. "Berkely Square. "

The second letter was from Mr. Plaskwith, and ran thus:

"DEAR MORTON, --Something very awkward has happened, --not my fault, andvery unpleasant for me. Your relation, Philip, as I wrote you word, wasa painstaking lad, though odd and bad mannered, --for want, perhaps, poorboy! of being taught better, and Mrs. P. Is, you know, a very genteelwoman--women go too much by manners--so she never took much to him. However, to the point, as the French emperor used to say: one eveninghe asked me for money for his mother, who, he said, was ill, in a veryinsolent way: I may say threatening. It was in my own shop, and beforePlimmins and Mrs. P. ; I was forced to answer with dignified rebuke, and left the shop. When I returned, he was gone, and someshillings-fourteen, I think, and three sovereigns--evidently from thetill, scattered on the floor. Mrs. P. And Mr. Plimmins were very muchfrightened; thought it was clear I was robbed, and that we were tobe murdered. Plimmins slept below that night, and we borrowed butcherJohnson's dog. Nothing happened. I did not think I was robbed; becausethe money, when we came to calculate, was all right. I know humannature. He had thought to take it, but repented--quite clear. However, Iwas naturally very angry, thought he'd comeback again--meant toreprove him properly--waited several days--heard nothing of him--grewuneasy--would not attend longer to Mrs. P. ; for, as Napoleon Buonaparteobserved, 'women are well in their way, not in our ours. ' Made Plimminsgo with me to town--hired a Bow Street runner to track him out--cost meL1. 1s, and two glasses of brandy and water. Poor Mrs. Morton was justburied--quite shocked! Suddenly saw the boy in the streets. Plimminsrushed forward in the kindest way--was knocked down--hurt his arm--paid2s. 6d. For lotion. Philip ran off, we ran after him--could not findhim. Forced to return home. Next day, a lawyer from a Mr. Beaufort--Mr. George Blackwell, a gentlemanlike man called. Mr. Beaufort will doanything for him in reason. Is there anything more I can do? I really amvery uneasy about the lad, and Mrs. P. And I have a tiff about it: butthat's nothing--thought I had best write to you for instructions. 

 "Yours truly, "C. PLASHWITH. 

"P. S. --Just open my letter to say, Bow Street officer just beenhere--has found out that the boy has been seen with a very suspiciouscharacter: they think he has left London. Bow Street officer wants to goafter him--very expensive: so now you can decide. "

Mr. Spencer scarcely listened to Mr. Plaskwith's letter, but ofArthur's he felt jealous. He would fain have been the only protector toCatherine's children; but he was the last man fitted to head the search, now so necessary to prosecute with equal tact and energy. 

A soft-hearted, soft-headed man, a confirmed valtudinarian, aday-dreamer, who had wasted away his life in dawdling and maunderingover Simple Poetry, and sighing over his unhappy attachment; no child, no babe, was more thoroughly helpless than Mr. Spencer. 

The task of investigation devolved, therefore, on Mr. Morton, and hewent about it in a regular, plain, straightforward way. Hand-billswere circulated, constables employed, and a lawyer, accompanied by Mr. Spencer, despatched to the manufacturing districts: towards which theorphans had been seen to direct their path. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 "Give the gentle South Yet leave to court these sails. " BEAUMONT AND FLLTCHER: Beggar's Bush. 

 "Cut your cloth, sir, According to your calling. "--Ibid. 

Meanwhile the brothers were far away, and He who feeds the young ravensmade their paths pleasant to their feet. Philip had broken to Sidneythe sad news of their mother's death, and Sidney had wept with bitterpassion. But children, --what can they know of death? Their tears overgraves dry sooner than the dews. It is melancholy to compare the depth, the endurance, the far-sighted, anxious, prayerful love of a parent, with the inconsiderate, frail, and evanescent affection of the infant, whose eyes the hues of the butterfly yet dazzle with delight. It was thenight of their flight, and in the open air, when Philip (his arms roundSidney's waist) told his brother-orphan that they were motherless. Andthe air was balmy, the skies filled with the effulgent presence of theAugust moon; the cornfields stretched round them wide and far, and nota leaf trembled on the beech-tree beneath which they had sought shelter. It seemed as if Nature herself smiled pityingly on their young sorrow, and said to them, "Grieve not for the dead: I, who live for ever, I willbe your mother!"

They crept, as the night deepened, into the warmer sleeping-placeafforded by stacks of hay, mown that summer and still fragrant. Andthe next morning the birds woke them betimes, to feel that Liberty, atleast, was with them, and to wander with her at will. 

Who in his boyhood has not felt the delight of freedom and adventure? tohave the world of woods and sward before him--to escape restriction--tolean, for the first time, on his own resources--to rejoice in the wildbut manly luxury of independence--to act the Crusoe--and to fancy aFriday in every footprint--an island of his own in every field? Yes, inspite of their desolation, their loss, of the melancholy past, of thefriendless future, the orphans were happy--happy in their youth--theirfreedom--their love--their wanderings in the delicious air of theglorious August. Sometimes they came upon knots of reapers lingering inthe shade of the hedge-rows over their noonday meal; and, grown sociableby travel, and bold by safety, they joined and partook of the rude farewith 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 scrupulouslyshunned, eying them with a mysterious awe! What heavenly twilightsbelong to that golden month!--the air so lucidly serene, as the purpleof the clouds fades gradually away, and up soars, broad, round, intense, and luminous, the full moon which belongs to the joyous season! Thefields then are greener than in the heats of July and June, --they havegot back the luxury of a second spring. And still, beside the paths ofthe travellers, lingered on the hedges the clustering honeysuckle--theconvolvulus glittered in the tangles of the brake--the hardy heathflowersmiled on the green waste. 

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

They avoided the main roads, and all towns, with suspicious care. Butsometimes they paused, for food and rest, at the obscure hostel of somescattered hamlet: though, more often, they loved to spread the simplefood they purchased by the way under some thick, tree, or beside astream through whose limpid waters they could watch the trout glide andplay. And they often preferred the chance shelter of a haystack, or ashed, to the less romantic repose offered by the small inns they alonedared to enter. They went in this much by the face and voice of the hostor hostess. Once only Philip had entered a town, on the second day oftheir flight, and that solely for the purchase of ruder clothes, anda change of linen for Sidney, with some articles and implements of usenecessary in their present course of shift and welcome hardship. A wiseprecaution; for, thus clad, they escaped suspicion. 

So journeying, they consumed several days; and, having taken a directionquite opposite to that which led to the manufacturing districts, whitherpursuit had been directed, they were now in the centre of anothercounty--in the neighbourhood of one of the most considerable towns ofEngland; and here Philip began to think their wanderings ought tocease, and it was time to settle on some definite course of life. Hehad carefully hoarded about his person, and most thriftily managed, the little fortune bequeathed by his mother. But Philip looked on thiscapital as a deposit sacred to Sidney; it was not to be spent, but keptand augmented--the nucleus for future wealth. Within the last few weekshis 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 careof. He resolved, then, to enter the town they were approaching, and toseek for some situation by which he might maintain both. Sidney was veryloath to abandon their present roving life; but he allowed that the warmweather could not always last, and that in winter the fields would beless pleasant. He, therefore, with a sigh, yielded to his brother'sreasonings. 

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

After his long rambling, Philip was pleased and struck with the broadbustling streets, the gay shops--the evidences of opulence and trade. Hethought it hard if he could not find there a market for the health andheart of sixteen. He strolled slowly and alone along the streets, tillhis attention was caught by a small corner shop, in the window of whichwas 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. Termsmoderate. 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 withspectacles, seated before a desk, poring upon the well-filled leaves ofa 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 forparticulars. Hum!--you don't look like a servant!"

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

"Very well; very genteel young man--prepossessing appearance (that's afudge!), 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 thata frank reply was his best policy. "The fact is, " said he boldly, "I waswell brought up; my father died; I was to be bound apprentice to a tradeI disliked; I left it, and have now no friends. "

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

Somewhat disappointed and chilled, Philip turned from the bureau; but hehad a strong confidence in his own resources, and recovered his spiritsas 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 mewsattempting to manage a young, hot horse, evidently unbroken. The masterof the stables, in a green short jacket and top-boots, with a longwhip in his hand, was standing by, with one or two men who looked likehorsedealers. 

"Come off, clumsy! you can't manage that I ere fine hanimal, " cried theliveryman. "Ah! he's a lamb, sir, if he were backed properly. But Ihas 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 thandone. The horse was now plunging as if Juno had sent her gadfly to him;and Philip, interested and excited, came nearer and nearer, till hestood by the side of the horse-dealers. The other ostlers ran to thehelp of their comrade, who at last, with white lips and shaking knees, found himself on terra firma; while the horse, snorting hard, andrubbing his head against the breast and arms of the ostler, who held himtightly by the rein, seemed to ask, is his own way, "Are there any moreof you?"

A suspicion that the horse was an old acquaintance crossed Philip'smind; he went up to him, and a white spot over the left eye confirmedhis 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, andfollowed him round the paddock like a dog; one that he had mounted insport, 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 hadboasted his affection, when, standing with Arthur Beaufort under thesummer sky, the whole world seemed to him full of friends. He put hishand on the horse's neck, and whispered, "Soho! So, Billy!" and thehorse turned sharp round with a quick joyous neigh. 

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

"There's a fine-spirited lad for you!" said the liveryman, much pleasedat the offer. "Now, gentlemen, did I not tell you that 'ere hanimal hadno vice if he was properly managed?"

The horse-dealers shook their heads. 

"May I give him some bread first?" asked Philip; and the ostler wasdespatched to the house. Meanwhile the animal evinced various signsof 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 yardseemed in as much delight and surprise as if they had witnessed one ofMonsieur Van Amburgh's exploits. 

And now, Philip, still caressing the horse, slowly and cautiouslymounted; the animal made one bound half-across the yard--a bound whichsent all the horse-dealers into a corner-and then went through hispaces, one after the other, with as much ease and calm as if he had beenbroken in at Mr. Fozard's to carry a young lady. And when he crowned allby going thrice over the leaping-bar, and Philip, dismounting, threw thereins to the ostler, and turned triumphantly to the horse-dealer, thatgentleman slapped him on the back, and said, emphatically, "Sir, you area man! and I am proud to see you here. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you? You could not know a better man. Well, I shall be very gladto engage you, though you seem by your hands to be a bit of agentleman-elh? Never mind; don't want you to groom!--but superintendthings. 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 intheir notions than the rest of mankind. Mr. Stubmore did not seem togrow more distant at Philip's narration. 

"Understand you perfectly, my man. Brought up with them 'ere finecreturs, how could you nail your nose to a desk? I'll take you withoutmore 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 wishto 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 hisintellectual education, but from the mere physical capacity and brutehabit 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 andskill in horsemanship were not the only qualifications useful to Mr. Stubmore: his education answered a useful purpose in accounts, andhis manners and appearance were highly to the credit of the yard. Thecustomers and loungers soon grew to like Gentleman Philips, as he wasstyled in the establishment. Mr. Stubmore conceived a real affection forhim. So passed several weeks; and Philip, in this humble capacity, mighthave worked out his destinies in peace and comfort, but for a newcause of vexation that arose in Sidney. This boy was all in all to hisbrother. For him he had resisted the hearty and joyous invitationsof Gawtrey (whose gay manner and high spirits had, it must be owned, captivated his fancy, despite the equivocal mystery of the man'savocations and condition); for him he now worked and toiled, cheerfuland contented; and him he sought to save from all to which he subjectedhimself. He could not bear that that soft and delicate child should everbe exposed to the low and menial associations that now made up hisown life--to the obscene slang of grooms and ostlers--to their coarsemanners and rough contact. He kept him, therefore, apart and aloof intheir little lodging, and hoped in time to lay by, so that Sidney mightultimately be restored, if not to his bright original sphere, at leastto a higher grade than that to which Philip was himself condemned. Butpoor Sidney could not bear to be thus left alone--to lose sight of hisbrother 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, themore 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 experimentof placing him at one where the boys were much of his own age. ButSidney, on the third day, came back with a black eye, and he wouldreturn no more. Philip several times thought of changing their lodgingfor one where there were young people. But Sidney had taken a fancy tothe kind old widow who was their landlady, and cried at the thought ofremoval. Unfortunately, the old woman was deaf and rheumatic; and thoughshe bore teasing ad libitum, she could not entertain the child long ona 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. Iwish I had not gone away with you!"

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

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

He would start from his sleep at night, and go to Sidney's bed to seethat he was there. He left him in the morning with forebodings--hereturned in the dark with fear. Meanwhile the character of this youngman, so sweet and tender to Sidney, was gradually becoming more hard andstern to others. He had now climbed to the post of command in that rudeestablishment; and premature command in any sphere tends to make menunsocial and imperious. 

One day Mr. Stubmore called him into his own countinghouse, where stooda gentleman, with one hand in his coatpocket, the other tapping his whipagainst his boot. 

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

"She must step very hoigh, " said the gentleman, turning round: andPhilip recognised the beau in the stage-coach. The recognition wassimultaneous. 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. Thegentleman 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 jollyBill Gawtrey? Recollect that, eh?" Philip was mute. 

"I was among the gentlemen in the back parlour who shook you by thehand. Bill's off to France, then. I am tauking the provinces. I want agood horse--the best in the yard, moind! Cutting such a swell here! Myname 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 didnot seem much to approve of; and, after glancing round the stables withgreat disdain of the collection, he sauntered out of the yard withoutsaying more to Philip, though he stopped and spoke a few sentences toMr. Stubmore. Philip hoped he had no design of purchasing, and thathe was rid, for the present, of so awkward a customer. Mr. Stubmoreapproached Philip. 

"Drive over the greys to Sir John, " said he. "My lady wants a pair tojob. A very pleasant man, that Captain Smith. I did not know you hadbeen 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 backinto the stables to order out the greys. The place to which he was boundwas some miles distant, and it was sunset when he returned. As he droveinto the main street, two men observed him closely. 

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

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

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 youreally 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 faellowwould 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 theStar Hotel for the next few days. I want a tight faellow like you, andyou shall have a fair percentage. I'm none of your stingy ones. I say, Ihope 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, withthat frown to which his swarthy complexion and flashing eyes gave anexpression of fierce power beyond his years, "you will find that, asI am the last to care for a threat, so I am the first to resent aninjury!"

Thus saying, he drove on. Captain Smith affected a cough, and put hisbrown mare into a canter. The two men followed Philip as he drove intothe 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, andwas not expected home till the next day. He had some relations who werefarmers, whom he often visited; to them he was probably gone. 

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

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

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

"Now don't be in a passion, my dear sir, --now don't. I am here on behalfof my clients, Messrs. Beaufort, sen. And jun. I have had such work tofind you! Dear, dear! but you are a sly one! Ha! ha! Well, you see wehave settled that little affair of Plaskwith's for you (might have beenugly), 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. Supposeyou step to my hotel. A glass of wine now, Mr. Philip! We shall soonunderstand each other. "

"Out of my path, or speak plainly!"

Thus put to it, the lawyer, casting a glance at his stout companion, whoappeared 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 amost lively interest in you; it is he who has directed this inquiry. Hebids me say that he shall be most happy--yes, most happy--to serve youin anything; and if you will but see him, he is in the town, I am sureyou 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 themother's death and the orphans' curse, will I ever accept boon orbenefit--with them, voluntarily, I will hold no communion; if they forcethemselves in my path, let them beware! I am earning my bread in the wayI 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 windowalone, and with wistful eyes noting the flight of the grey moths as theydarted to and fro, across the dull shrubs that, variegated with linesfor washing, adorned the plot of ground which the landlady called agarden. The elder brother had returned at an earlier hour than usual, and Sidney did not at first perceive him enter. When he did he clappedhis hands, and ran to him. 

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

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

"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. Ihave no heart to play now. "

Sidney seated himself and pouted. 

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

Sidney, whose anger seldom lasted long, was reconciled; and they wentinto the garden to play. It was a little spot, screened by an oldmoss-grown paling, from the neighbouring garden on the one side anda lane on the other. They played with great glee till the night grewdarker 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 lookacross the paling, saw the dim outline of a man's figure in the lane, who appeared watching them. A thrill shot across his breast. TheseBeauforts, associated in his thoughts with every evil omen and augury, had they set a spy upon his movements? He remained erect and gazingat the form, when Sidney discovered, and ran up to him, with his noisylaugh. 

As the child clung to him, shouting with gladness, Philip, unheeding hisplaymate, called aloud and imperiously to the stranger--

"What are you gaping at? Why do you stand watching us?"

The man muttered something, moved on, and disappeared. "I hope thereare no thieves here! I am so much afraid of thieves, " said Sidney, tremulously. 

The fear grated on Philip's heart. Had he not himself, perhaps, beenjudged and treated as a thief? He said nothing, but drew his brotherwithin; and there, in their little room, by the one poor candle, it wastouching and beautiful to see these boys--the tender patience of theelder lending itself to every whim of the younger--now buildinghouses with cards--now telling stories of fairy and knight-errant--thesprightliest he could remember or invent. At length, as all was over, and Sidney was undressing for the night, Philip, standing apart, said tohim, in a mournful voice:--

"Are you sad now, Sidney?"

"No! not when you are with me--but that is so seldom. "

"Do you read none of the story-books I bought for you?"

"Sometimes! but one can't read all day. "

"Ah! Sidney, if ever we should part, perhaps you will love me nolonger!"

"Don't say so, " said Sidney. "But we sha'n't part, Philip?"

Philip sighed, and turned away as his brother leaped into bed. Somethingwhispered to him that danger was near; and as it was, could Sidney growup, neglected and uneducated; was it thus that he was to fulfil histrust?

CHAPTER IX. 

 "But oh, what storm was in that mind!"--CRABBE. Ruth

While Philip mused, and his brother fell into the happy sleep ofchildhood, in a room in the principal hotel of the town sat threepersons, Arthur Beaufort, Mr. Spencer, and Mr. Blackwell. 

"And so, " said the first, "he rejected every overture from theBeauforts?"

"With a scorn I cannot convey to you!" replied the lawyer. "But the factis, that he is evidently a lad of low habits; to think of his being asort of helper to a horse dealer! I suppose, sir, he was always in thestables in his father's time. Bad company depraves the taste very soon;but that is not the worst. Sharp declares that the man he was talkingwith, as I told you, is a common swindler. Depend on it, Mr. Arthur, heis incorrigible; all we can do is to save the brother. "

"It is too dreadful to contemplate!" said Arthur, who, still ill andlanguid, reclined on a sofa. 

"It is, indeed, " said Mr. Spencer; "I am sure I should not know what todo with such a character; but the other poor child, it would be a mercyto get hold of him. "

"Where is Mr. Sharp?" asked Arthur. 

"Why, " said the lawyer, "he has followed Philip at a distance to findout his lodgings, and learn if his brother is with him. Oh! here he is!"and Blackwell's companion in the earlier part of the evening entered. 

"I have found him out, sir, " said Mr. Sharp, wiping his forehead. "Whata fierce 'un he is! I thought he would have had a stone at my head; butwe officers are used to it; we does our duty, and Providence makes ourheads unkimmon hard!"

"Is the child with him?" asked Mr. Spencer. 

"Yes, sir. "

"A little, quiet, subdued boy?" asked the melancholy inhabitant of theLakes. 

"Quiet! Lord love you! never heard a noisier little urchin! There theywere, romping and romping in the garden, like a couple of gaol birds. "

"You see, " groaned Mr. Spencer, "he will make that poor child as bad ashimself. "

"What shall us do, Mr. Blackwell?" asked Sharp, who longed for hisbrandy and water. 

"Why, I was thinking you might go to the horse-dealer the first thing inthe morning; find out whether Philip is really thick with the swindler;and, perhaps, Mr. Stubmore may have some influence with him, if, withoutsaying who he is--"

"Yes, " interrupted Arthur, "do not expose his name. "

"You could still hint that he ought to be induced to listen to hisfriends and go with them. Mr. Stubmore may be a respectable man, and---"

"I understand, " said Sharp; "I have no doubt as how I can settle it. Welearns to know human natur in our profession;--'cause why? we gets atits blind side. Good night, gentlemen!"

"You seem very pale, Mr. Arthur; you had better go to bed; you promisedyour father, you know. "

"Yes, I am not well; I will go to bed;" and Arthur rose, lighted hiscandle, and sought his room. 

"I will see Philip to-morrow, " he said to himself; "he will listen tome. "

The conduct of Arthur Beaufort in executing the charge he had undertakenhad brought into full light all the most amiable and generous partof his character. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he hadexpressed so much anxiety as to the fate of the orphans, that to quiethim his father was forced to send for Mr. Blackwell. The lawyer hadascertained, through Dr. ----, the name of Philip's employer at R----. At Arthur's request he went down to Mr. Plaskwith; and arriving therethe day after the return of the bookseller, learned those particularswith which Mr. Plaskwith's letter to Roger Morton has already madethe reader acquainted. The lawyer then sent for Mr. Sharp, theofficer before employed, and commissioned him to track the young man'swhereabout. That shrewd functionary soon reported that a youth every wayanswering to Philip's description had been introduced the night of theescape by a man celebrated, not indeed for robberies, or larcenies, orcrimes of the coarser kind, but for address in all that more large andcomplex character which comes under the denomination of living uponone's wits, to a polite rendezvous frequented by persons of a similarprofession. Since then, however, all clue of Philip was lost. Butthough Mr. Blackwell, in the way of his profession, was thus publiclybenevolent towards the fugitive, he did not the less privately representto his patrons, senior and junior, the very equivocal character thatPhilip must be allowed to bear. Like most lawyers, hard upon all whowander from the formal tracks, he unaffectedly regarded Philip's flightand absence as proofs of a reprobate disposition; and this conductwas greatly aggravated in his eyes by Mr. Sharp's report, by which itappeared that after his escape Philip had so suddenly, and, as itwere, so naturally, taken to such equivocal companionship. Mr. RobertBeaufort, already prejudiced against Philip, viewed matters in the samelight as the lawyer; and the story of his supposed predilections reachedArthur's ears in so distorted a shape, that even he was staggered andrevolted:--still Philip was so young--Arthur's oath to the orphans'mother so recent--and if thus early inclined to wrong courses, shouldnot every effort be made to lure him back to the straight path? Withthese views and reasonings, as soon as he was able, Arthur himselfvisited Mrs. Lacy, and the note from Philip, which the good lady putinto his hands, affected him deeply, and confirmed all his previousresolutions. Mrs. Lacy was very anxious to get at his name; but Arthur, having heard that Philip had refused all aid from his father and Mr. Blackwell, thought that the young man's pride might work equally againsthimself, and therefore evaded the landlady's curiosity. He wrote thenext day the letter we have seen, to Mr. Roger Morton, whose addressCatherine had given to him; and by return of post came a letter from thelinendraper narrating the flight of Sidney, as it was supposed with hisbrother. This news so excited Arthur that he insisted on going down toN---- at once, and joining in the search. His father, alarmed for hishealth, positively refused; and the consequence was an increase offever, a consultation with the doctors, and a declaration that Mr. Arthur was in that state that it would be dangerous not to let him havehis own way, Mr. Beaufort was forced to yield, and with Blackwelland Mr. Sharp accompanied his son to N----. The inquiries, hithertofruitless, then assumed a more regular and business-like character. By little and little they came, through the aid of Mr. Sharp, upon theright clue, up to a certain point. But here there was a double scent:two youths answering the description, had been seen at a small village;then there came those who asserted that they had seen the same youthsat a seaport in one direction; others, who deposed to their having takenthe road to an inland town in the other. This had induced Arthur and hisfather to part company. Mr. Beaufort, accompanied by Roger Morton, went to the seaport; and Arthur, with Mr. Spencer and Mr. Sharp, morefortunate, tracked the fugitives to their retreat. As for Mr. Beaufort, senior, now that his mind was more at ease about his son, he wasthoroughly sick of the whole thing; greatly bored by the society ofMr. Morton; very much ashamed that he, so respectable and great a man, should be employed on such an errand; more afraid of, than pleased with, any chance of discovering the fierce Philip; and secretly resolved uponslinking back to London at the first reasonable excuse. 

The next morning Mr. Sharp entered betimes Mr. Stubmore'scounting-house. In the yard he caught a glimpse of Philip, and managedto keep himself unseen by that young gentleman. 

"Mr. Stubmore, I think?"

"At your service, sir. "

Mr. Sharp shut the glass door mysteriously, and lifting up the cornerof a green curtain that covered the panes, beckoned to the startledStubmore to approach. 

"You see that 'ere young man in the velveteen jacket? you employs him?"

"I do, sir; he's my right hand. "

"Well, now, don't be frightened, but his friends are arter him. He hasgot into bad ways, and we want you to give him a little good advice. "

"Pooh! I know he has run away, like a fine-spirited lad as he is; andas long as he likes to stay with me, they as comes after him may get aducking in the horse-trough!"

"Be you a father? a father of a family, Mr. Stubmore?" said Sharp, thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets, swelling out his stomach, and pursing up his lips with great solemnity. 

"Nonsense! no gammon with me! Take your chaff to the goslings. I tellsyou I can't do without that 'ere lad. Every man to himself. "

"Oho!" thought Sharp, "I must change the tack. "

"Mr. Stubmore, " said he, taking a stool, "you speaks like a sensibleman. No one can reasonably go for to ask a gentleman to go for toinconvenience hisself. But what do you know of that 'ere youngster. Hadyou a carakter with him?"

"What's that to you?"

"Why, it's more to yourself, Mr. Stubmore; he is but a lad, and if hegoes back to his friends they may take care of him, but he got intoa bad set afore he come here. Do you know a good-looking chap withwhiskers, who talks of his pheaton, and was riding last night on a brownmare?"

"Y--e--s!" said Mr. Stubmore, growing rather pale, "and I knows themare, too. Why, sir, I sold him that mare!"

"Did he pay you for her?"

"Why, to be sure, he gave me a cheque on Coutts. "

"And you took it! My eyes! what a flat!" Here Mr. Sharp closed the orbshe had invoked, and whistled with that self-hugging delight which meninvariably feel when another man is taken in. 

Mr. Stubmore became evidently nervous. 

"Why, what now;--you don't think I'm done? I did not let him have themare till I went to the hotel, --found he was cutting a great dash there, a groom, a pheaton, and a fine horse, and as extravagant as the devil!"

"O Lord!--O Lord! what a world this is! What does he call his-self?"

"Why, here's the cheque--George Frederick de--de Burgh Smith. "

"Put it in your pipe, my man, --put it in your pipe--not worth a d---!"

"And who the deuce are you, sir?" bawled out Mr. Stubmore, in an equalrage both with himself and his guest. 

"I, sir, " said the visitor, rising with great dignity, --"I, sir, am ofthe great Bow Street Office, and my name is John Sharp!"

Mr. Stubmore nearly fell off his stool, his eyes rolled in his head, andhis teeth chattered. Mr. Sharp perceived the advantage he had gained, and continued, --

"Yes, sir; and I could have much to say against that chap, who isnothing more or less than Dashing Jerry, as has ruined more girls andmore tradesmen than any lord in the land. And so I called to give youa bit of caution; for, says I to myself, 'Mr. Stubmore is a respectableman. '"

"I hope I am, sir, " said the crestfallen horse-dealer; "that was alwaysmy character. "

"And the father of a family?"

"Three boys and a babe at the buzzom, " said Mr. Stubmore pathetically. 

"And he sha'n't be taken in if I can help it! That 'ere young man as Iam arter, you see, knows Captain Smith--ha! ha!--smell a rat now--eh?"

"Captain Smith said he knew him--the wiper--and that's what made me sogreen. "

"Well, we must not be hard on the youngster: 'cause why? he has friendsas is gemmen. But you tell him to go back to his poor dear relations, and all shall be forgiven; and say as how you won't keep him; and if hedon't go back, he'll have to get his livelihood without a carakter; anduse your influence with him like a man and a Christian, and what's more, like the father of a family--Mr. Stub more--with three boys and a babeat the buzzom. You won't keep him now?"

"Keep him! I have had a precious escape. I'd better go and see after themare. "

"I doubt if you'll find her: the Captain caught a sight of me thismorning. Why, he lodges at our hotel. He's off by this time!"

"And why the devil did you let him go?"

"'Cause I had no writ agin him!" said the Bow Street officer; and hewalked straight out of the counting-office, satisfied that he had "donethe job. "

To snatch his hat--to run to the hotel--to find that Captain Smith hadindeed gone off in his phaeton, bag and baggage, the same as he came, except that he had now two horses to the phaeton instead of one--havingleft with the landlord the amount of his bill in another cheque uponCoutts--was the work of five minutes with Mr. Stubmore. He returnedhome, panting and purple with indignation and wounded feeling. 

"To think that chap, whom I took into my yard like a son, should haveconnived at this! 'Tain't the money'tis the willany that 'flicts me!"muttered Mr. Stubmore, as he re-entered the mews. 

Here he came plump upon Philip, who said--

"Sir, I wished to see you, to say that you had better take care ofCaptain Smith. "

"Oh, you did, did you, now he's gone? 'sconded off to America, I daresay, by this time. Now look ye, young man; your friends are after you, Iwon't say anything agin you; but you go back to them--I wash my handsof you. Quite too much for me. There's your week, and never let me catchyou in my yard agin, that's all!"

Philip dropped the money which Stubmore had put into his hand. "Myfriends!--friends have been with you, have they? I thought so--I thankthem. And so you part with me? Well, you have been very kind, very kind;let us part kindly;" and he held out his hand. 

Mr. Stubmore was softened--he touched the hand held out to him, andlooked doubtful a moment; but Captain de Burgh Smith's cheque for eightyguineas suddenly rose before his eyes. He turned on his heel abruptly, and said, over his shoulder:

"Don't go after Captain Smith (he'll come to the gallows); mend yourways, and be ruled by your poor dear relatives, whose hearts you arebreaking. "

"Captain Smith! Did my relations tell you?"

"Yes--yes--they told me all--that is, they sent to tell me; so you seeI'm d---d soft not to lay hold of you. But, perhaps, if they be gemmen, they'll act as sich, and cash me this here cheque!"

But the last words were said to air. Philip had rushed from the yard. 

With a heaving breast, and every nerve in his body quivering with wrath, the proud, unhappy boy strode through the gay streets. They had betrayedhim then, these accursed Beauforts! they circled his steps with schemesto drive him like a deer into the snare of their loathsome charity! Theroof was to be taken from his head--the bread from his lips--so thathe might fawn at their knees for bounty. "But they shall not break myspirit, nor steal away my curse. No, my dead mother, never!"

As he thus muttered, he passed through a patch of waste land that ledto the row of houses in which his lodging was placed. And here a voicecalled to him, and a hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned, andArthur Beaufort, who had followed him from the street, stood behind him. Philip did not, at the first glance, recognise his cousin; illness hadso altered him, and his dress was so different from that in which he hadfirst and last beheld him. The contrast between the two young menwas remarkable. Philip was clad in a rough garb suited to his latecalling--a jacket of black velveteen, ill-fitting and ill-fashioned, loose fustian trousers, coarse shoes, his hat set deep over his penteyebrows, his raven hair long and neglected. He was just at that agewhen one with strong features and robust frame is at the worst in pointof appearance--the sinewy proportions not yet sufficiently fleshed, andseeming inharmonious and undeveloped; precisely in proportion, perhaps, to the symmetry towards which they insensibly mature: the contour ofthe face sharpened from the roundness of boyhood, and losing its bloomwithout yet acquiring that relief and shadow which make the expressionand dignity of the masculine countenance. Thus accoutred, thus gaunt, and uncouth, stood Morton. Arthur Beaufort, always refined in hisappearance, seemed yet more so from the almost feminine delicacy whichill-health threw over his pale complexion and graceful figure; that sortof unconscious elegance which belongs to the dress of the rich whenthey are young--seen most in minutiae--not observable, perhaps, bythemselves-marked forcibly and painfully the distinction of rank betweenthe two. That distinction Beaufort did not feel; but at a glance it wasvisible to Philip. 

The past rushed back on him. The sunny lawn-the gun offered andrejected-the pride of old, much less haughty than the pride of to-day. 

"Philip, " said Beaufort, feebly, "they tell me you will not accept anykindness from me or mine. Ah! if you knew how we have sought you!"

"Knew!" cried Philip, savagely, for that unlucky sentence recalled tohim his late interview with his employer, and his present destitution. "Knew! And why have you dared to hunt me out, and halloo me down?--whymust this insolent tyranny, that assumes the right over these limbsand this free will, betray and expose me and my wretchedness wherever Iturn?"

"Your poor mother--" began Beaufort. 

"Name her not with your lips--name her not!" cried Philip, growing lividwith his emotions. "Talk not of the mercy--the forethought--a Beaufortcould show to leer and her offspring! I accept it not--I believe it not. Oh, yes! you follow me now with your false kindness; and why? Becauseyour father--your vain, hollow, heartless father--"

"Hold!" said Beaufort, in a tone of such reproach, that it startled thewild heart on which it fell; "it is my father you speak of. Let the sonrespect the son. "

"No--no--no! I will respect none of your race. I tell you your fatherfears me. I tell you that my last words to him ring in his ears! Mywrongs! Arthur Beaufort, when you are absent I seek to forget them; inyour abhorred presence they revive--they--"

He stopped, almost choked with his passion; but continued instantly, with equal intensity of fervour:

"Were yon tree the gibbet, and to touch your hand could alone save mefrom it, I would scorn your aid. Aid! The very thought fires myblood and nerves my hand. Aid! Will a Beaufort give me back mybirthright--restore my dead mother's fair name? Minion!--sleek, dainty, luxurious minion!--out of my path! You have my fortune, my station, myrights; I have but poverty, and hate, and disdain. I swear, again andagain, that you shall not purchase these from me. "

"But, Philip--Philip, " cried Beaufort, catching his arm; "hear one--hearone who stood by your--"

The sentence that would have saved the outcast from the demons that weredarkening and swooping round his soul, died upon the young Protector'slips. Blinded, maddened, excited, and exasperated, almost out ofhumanity itself, Philip fiercely--brutally--swung aside the enfeebledform that sought to cling to him, and Beaufort fell at his feet. Mortonstopped--glared at him with clenched hands and a smiling lip, sprungover his prostrate form, and bounded to his home. 

He slackened his pace as he neared the house, and looked behind; butBeaufort had not followed him. He entered the house, and found Sidneyin the room, with a countenance so much more gay than that he had latelyworn, that, absorbed as he was in thought and passion, it yet did notfail to strike him. 

"What has pleased you, Sidney?" The child smiled. 

"Ah! it is a secret--I was not to tell you. But I'm sure you are not thenaughty boy he says you are. "

"He!--who?"

"Don't look so angry, Philip: you frighten me!"

"And you torture me. Who could malign one brother to the other?"

"Oh! it was all meant very kindly--there's been such a nice, dear, good gentleman here, and he cried when he saw me, and said he knew dearmamma. Well, and he has promised to take me home with him and give me apretty pony--as pretty--as pretty--oh, as pretty as it can be got! Andhe is to call again and tell me more: I think he is a fairy, Philip. "

"Did he say that he was to take me, too, Sidney?" said Morton, seatinghimself, and looking very pale. At that question Sidney hung his head. 

"No, brother--he says you won't go, and that you are a bad boy--and thatyou associate with wicked people--and that you want to keep me shut uphere and not let any one be good to me. But I told him I did not believethat--yes, indeed, I told him so. "

And Sidney endeavoured caressingly to withdraw the hands that hisbrother placed before his face. 

Morton started up, and walked hastily to and fro the room. "This, "thought he, "is another emissary of the Beauforts'--perhaps the lawyer:they will take him from me--the last thing left to love and hope for. Iwill foil them. "

"Sidney, " he said aloud, "we must go hence today, this very hour-nay, instantly. "

"What! away from this nice, good gentleman?"

"Curse him! yes, away from him. Do not cry--it is of no use--you mustgo. "

This was said more harshly than Philip had ever yet spoken to Sidney;and when he had said it, he left the room to settle with the landlady, and to pack up their scanty effects. In another hour, the brothers hadturned their backs on the town. 

CHAPTER X. 

 "I'll carry thee In sorrow's arms to welcome Misery. "

 HEYWOOD's Duchess of Sufolk. 

 "Who's here besides foul weather?" SHAKSPEARE Lear. 

The sun was as bright and the sky as calm during the journey of theorphans as in the last. They avoided, as before, the main roads, and their way lay through landscapes that might have charmed aGainsborough's eye. Autumn scattered its last hues of gold over thevarious foliage, and the poppy glowed from the hedges, and the wildconvolvuli, here and there, still gleamed on the wayside with a partingsmile. 

At times, over the sloping stubbles, broke the sound of the sportsman'sgun; and ever and anon, by stream and sedge, they startled the shy wildfowl, just come from the far lands, nor yet settled in the new hauntstoo soon to be invaded. 

But there was no longer in the travellers the same hearts that had madelight of hardship and fatigue. Sidney was no longer flying from a harshmaster, and his step was not elastic with the energy of fear that lookedbehind, and of hope that smiled before. He was going a toilsome, wearyjourney, he knew not why nor whither; just, too, when he had madea friend, whose soothing words haunted his childish fancy. He wasdispleased with Philip, and in sullen and silent thoughtfulness slowlyplodded behind him; and Morton himself was gloomy, and knew not where inthe world to seek a future. 

They arrived at dusk at a small inn, not so far distant from the townthey had left as Morton could have wished; but the days were shorterthan in their first flight. 

They were shown into a small sanded parlour, which Sidney eyed withgreat disgust; nor did he seem more pleased with the hacked and jaggedleg of cold mutton, which was all that the hostess set before them forsupper. Philip in vain endeavoured to cheer him up, and ate to sethim the example. He felt relieved when, under the auspices of agood-looking, good-natured chambermaid, Sidney retired to rest, and hewas left in the parlour to his own meditations. Hitherto it had been ahappy thing for Morton that he had had some one dependent on him; thatfeeling had given him perseverance, patience, fortitude, and hope. Butnow, dispirited and sad, he felt rather the horror of being responsiblefor a human life, without seeing the means to discharge the trust. It was clear, even to his experience, that he was not likely to findanother employer as facile as Mr. Stubmore; and wherever he went, hefelt as if his Destiny stalked at his back. He took out his littlefortune and spread it on the table, counting it over and over; it hadremained pretty stationary since his service with Mr. Stubmore, forSidney had swallowed up the wages of his hire. While thus employed, thedoor opened, and the chambermaid, showing in a gentleman, said, "We haveno other room, sir. "

"Very well, then, --I'm not particular; a tumbler of braundy and water, stiffish, cold without, the newspaper--and a cigar. You'll excusesmoking, sir?"

Philip looked up from his hoard, and Captain de Burgh Smith stood beforehim. 

"Ah!" said the latter, "well met!" And closing the door, he took offhis great-coat, seated himself near Philip, and bent both his eyeswith considerable wistfulness on the neat rows into which Philip'sbank-notes, sovereigns, and shillings were arrayed. 

"Pretty little sum for pocket money; caush in hand goes a great way, properly invested. You must have been very lucky. Well, so I suppose youare surprised to see me here without my pheaton?"

"I wish I had never seen you at all, " replied Philip, uncourteously, andrestoring his money to his pocket; "your fraud upon Mr. Stubmore, andyour assurance that you knew me, have sent me adrift upon the world. "

"What's one man's meat is another man's poison, " said the captain, philosophically; "no use fretting, care killed a cat. I am as badly offas you; for, hang me, if there was not a Bow Street runner in the town. I caught his eye fixed on me like a gimlet: so I bolted--went to N----, left my pheaton and groom there for the present, and have doubled back, to bauffle pursuit, and cut across the country. You recollect that voicegirl we saw in the coach; 'gad, I served her spouse that is to be apraetty trick! Borrowed his money under pretence of investing it in theNew Grand Anti-Dry-Rot Company; cool hundred--it's only just gone, sir. "

Here the chambermaid entered with the brandy and water, the newspaper, and cigar, --the captain lighted the last, took a deep sup from thebeverage, and said, gaily:

"Well, now, let us join fortunes; we are both, as you say, 'adrift. 'Best way to staund the breeze is to unite the caubles. "

Philip shook his head, and, displeased with his companion, sought hispillow. He took care to put his money under his head, and to lock hisdoor. 

The brothers started at daybreak; Sidney was even more discontented thanon the previous day. The weather was hot and oppressive; they rested forsome hours at noon, and in the cool of the evening renewed their way. Philip had made up his mind to steer for a town in the thick of ahunting district, where he hoped his equestrian capacities might againbefriend him; and their path now lay through a chain of vast drearycommons, which gave them at least the advantage to skirt the road-sideunobserved. But, somehow or other, either Philip had been misinformed asto an inn where he had proposed to pass the night, or he had missed it;for the clouds darkened, and the sun went down, and no vestige of humanhabitation was discernible. 

Sidney, footsore and querulous, began to weep, and declare that he couldstir no further; and while Philip, whose iron frame defied fatigue, compassionately paused to rest his brother, a low roll of thunder brokeupon the gloomy air. "There will be a storm, " said he, anxiously. "Comeon--pray, Sidney, come on. "

"It is so cruel in you, brother Philip, " replied Sidney, sobbing. "Iwish I had never--never gone with you. "

A flash of lightning, that illuminated the whole heavens, lingered roundSidney's pale face as he spoke; and Philip threw himself instinctivelyon the child, as if to protect him even from the wrath of theunshelterable flame. Sidney, hushed and terrified, clung to hisbrother's breast; after a pause, he silently consented to resume theirjourney. But now the storm came nearer and nearer to the wanderers. The darkness grew rapidly more intense, save when the lightning lit upheaven and earth alike with intolerable lustre. And when at length therain began to fall in merciless and drenching torrents, even Philip'sbrave heart failed him. How could he ask Sidney to proceed, when theycould scarcely see an inch before them?--all that could now be done wasto gain the high-road, and hope for some passing conveyance. With fitsand starts, and by the glare of the lightning, they obtained theirobject; and stood at last on the great broad thoroughfare, along which, since the day when the Roman carved it from the waste, Misery hathplodded, and Luxury rolled, their common way. 

Philip had stripped handkerchief, coat, vest, all to shelter Sidney;and he felt a kind of strange pleasure through the dark, even to hearSidney's voice wail and moan. But that voice grew more languid andfaint--it ceased--Sidney's weight hung heavy--heavier on the fosteringarm. 

"For Heaven's sake, speak!--speak, Sidney!--only one word--I will carryyou in my arms!"

"I think I am dying, " replied Sidney, in a low murmur; "I am so tiredand worn out I can go no further--I must lie here. " And he sank at onceupon the reeking grass beside the road. . At this time the raingradually relaxed, the clouds broke away--a grey light succeeded to thedarkness--the lightning was more distant; and the thunder rolled onwardin its awful path. Kneeling on the ground, Philip supported his brotherin his arms, and cast his pleading eyes upward to the softening terrorsof the sky. A star, a solitary star-broke out for one moment, as if tosmile comfort upon him, and then vanished. But lo! in the distance theresuddenly gleamed a red, steady light, like that in some solitary window;it was no will-o'-the-wisp, it was too stationary--human shelter wasthen nearer than he had thought for. He pointed to the light, andwhispered, "Rouse yourself, one struggle more--it cannot be far off. "

"It is impossible--I cannot stir, " answered Sidney: and a sudden flashof lightning showed his countenance, ghastly, as if with the damps ofDeath. What could the brother do?--stay there, and see the boy perishbefore his eyes? leave him on the road and fly to the friendly light?The last plan was the sole one left, yet he shrank from it in greaterterror than the first. Was that a step that he heard across the road? Heheld his breath to listen--a form became dimly visible--it approached. 

Philip shouted aloud. 

"What now?" answered the voice, and it seemed familiar to Morton's ear. He sprang forward; and putting his face close to the wayfarer, thoughtto recognise the features of Captain de Burgh Smith. The Captain, whoseeyes were yet more accustomed to the dark, made the first overture. 

"Why, my lad, is it you then? 'Gad, you froightened me!"

Odious as this man had hitherto been to Philip, he was as welcome to himas daylight now; he grasped his hand, --"My brother--a child--is here, dying, I fear, with cold and fatigue; he cannot stir. Will you stay withhim--support him--but for a few moments, while I make to yon light? See, I have money--plenty of money!"

"My good lad, it is very ugly work staying here at this hour:still--where's the choild?"

"Here, here! make haste, raise him! that's right! God bless you! I shallbe back ere you think me gone. "

He sprang from the road, and plunged through the heath, the furze, therank glistening pools, straight towards the light-as the swimmer towardsthe shore. 

The captain, though a rogue, was human; and when life--an innocentlife--is at stake, even a rogue's heart rises up from its weedy bed. He muttered a few oaths, it is true, but he held the child in his arms;and, taking out a little tin case, poured some brandy down Sidney'sthroat and then, by way of company, down his own. The cordial revivedthe boy; he opened his eyes, and said, "I think I can go on now, Philip. "

 . .. .. .. . 

We must return to Arthur Beaufort. He was naturally, though gentle, aperson of high spirit and not without pride. He rose from the groundwith bitter, resentful feelings and a blushing cheek, and went his wayto the hotel. Here he found Mr. Spencer just returned from his visitto Sidney. Enchanted with the soft and endearing manners of his lostCatherine's son, and deeply affected with the resemblance the child boreto the mother as he had seen her last at the gay and rosy age offair sixteen, his description of the younger brother drew Beaufort'sindignant thoughts from the elder. He cordially concurred with Mr. Spencer in the wish to save one so gentle from the domination of one sofierce; and this, after all, was the child Catherine had most stronglycommended to him. She had said little of the elder; perhaps she had beenaware of his ungracious and untractable nature, and, as it seemed toArthur Beaufort, his predilections for a coarse and low career. 

"Yes, " said he, "this boy, then, shall console me for the perversebrutality of the other. He shall indeed drink of my cup, and eat of mybread, and be to me as a brother. "

"What!" said Mr. Spencer, changing countenance, "you do not intend totake Sidney to live with you. I meant him for my son--my adopted son. "

"No; generous as you are, " said Arthur, pressing his hand, "this chargedevolves on me--it is my right. I am the orphan's relation--his motherconsigned him to me. But he shall be taught to love you not the less. "

Mr. Spencer was silent. He could not bear the thought of losing Sidneyas an inmate of his cheerless home, a tender relic of his early love. From that moment he began to contemplate the possibility of securingSidney to himself, unknown to Beaufort. 

The plans both of Arthur and Spencer were interrupted by the suddenretreat of the brothers. They determined to depart different ways insearch of them. Spencer, as the more helpless of the two, obtained theaid of Mr. Sharp; Beaufort departed with the lawyer. 

Two travellers, in a hired barouche, were slowly dragged by a pair ofjaded posters along the commons I have just described. 

"I think, " said one, "that the storm is very much abated; heigho! whatan unpleasant night!"

"Unkimmon ugly, sir, " answered the other; "and an awful long stage, eighteen miles. These here remote places are quite behind the age, sir--quite. However, I think we shall kitch them now. "

"I am very much afraid of that eldest boy, Sharp. He seems a dreadfulvagabond. "

"You see, sir, quite hand in glove with Dashing Jerry; met in the sameinn last night--preconcerted, you may be quite shure. It would be thebest day's job I have done this many a day to save that 'ere littlefellow from being corrupted. You sees he is just of a size to be usefulto these bad karakters. If they took to burglary, he would be a treasureto them--slip him through a pane of glass like a ferret, sir. "

"Don't talk of it, Sharp, " said Mr. Spencer, with a groan; "andrecollect, if we get hold of him, that you are not to say a word to Mr. Beaufort. "

"I understand, sir; and I always goes with the gemman who behaves mostlike a gemman. "

Here a loud halloo was heard close by the horses' heads. "Good Heavens, if that is a footpad!" said Mr. Spencer, shaking violently. 

"Lord, sir, I have my barkers with me. Who's there?" The barouchestopped--a man came to the window. "Excuse me, sir, " said the stranger;"but there is a poor boy here so tired and ill that I fear he will neverreach the next town, unless you will koindly give him a lift. "

"A poor boy!" said Mr. Spencer, poking his head over the head of Mr. Sharp. "Where?"

"If you would just drop him at the King's Awrms it would be a chaurity, "said the man. 

Sharp pinched Mr. Spencer in his shoulder. "That's Dashing Jerry; I'llget out. " So saying, he opened the door, jumped into the road, andpresently reappeared with the lost and welcome Sidney in his arms. "Ben't this the boy?" he whispered to Mr. Spencer; and, taking the lampfrom the carriage, he raised it to the child's face. 

"It is! it is! God be thanked!" exclaimed the worthy man. 

"Will you leave him at the King's Awrms?--we shall be there in an houror two, " cried the Captain. 

"We! Who's we?" said Sharp, gruffly. "Why, myself and the choild'sbrother. "

"Oh!" said Sharp, raising the lantern to his own face; "you knows me, I think, Master Jerry? Let me kitch you again, that's all. And givemy compliments to your 'sociate, and say, if he prosecutes this herehurchin any more, we'll settle his bizness for him; and so take a hintand make yourself scarce, old boy!"

With that Mr. Sharp jumped into the barouche, and bade the postboy driveon as fast as he could. 

Ten minutes after this abduction, Philip, followed by two labourers, with a barrow, a lantern, and two blankets, returned from the hospitablefarm to which the light had conducted him. The spot where he had leftSidney, and which he knew by a neighbouring milestone, was vacant; heshouted an alarm, and the Captain answered from the distance of somethreescore yards. Philip came to him. "Where is my brother?"

"Gone away in a barouche and pair. Devil take me if I understand it. "And the Captain proceeded to give a confused account of what had passed. 

"My brother! my brother! they have torn thee from me, then;" criedPhilip, and he fell to the earth insensible. 

CHAPTER XI. 

 "Vous me rendrez mon frere!" CASIMER DELAVIGNE: Les Enfans d'Edouard. 

 ['You shall restore me my brother!]

One evening, a week after this event, a wild, tattered, haggard youthknocked at the door of Mr. Robert Beaufort. The porter slowly presentedhimself. 

"Is your master at home? I must see him instantly. "

"That's more than you can, my man; my master does not see the likeof you at this time of night, " replied the porter, eying the raggedapparition before him with great disdain. 

"See me he must and shall, " replied the young man; and as the porterblocked up the entrance, he grasped his collar with a hand of iron, swung him, huge as he was, aside, and strode into the spacious hall. 

"Stop! stop!" cried the porter, recovering himself. "James! John! here'sa go!"

Mr. Robert Beaufort had been back in town several days. Mrs. Beaufort, who was waiting his return from his club, was in the dining-room. Hearing a noise in the hall, she opened the door, and saw the strangegrim figure I have described, advancing towards her. "Who are you?" saidshe; "and what do you want?"

"I am Philip Morton. Who are you?"

"My husband, " said Mrs. Beaufort, shrinking into the parlour, whileMorton followed her and closed the door, "my husband, Mr. Beaufort, isnot at home. "

"You are Mrs. Beaufort, then! Well, you can understand me. I want mybrother. He has been basely reft from me. Tell me where he is, and Iwill forgive all. Restore him to me, and I will bless you and yours. "And Philip fell on his knees and grasped the train of her gown. "I knownothing of your brother, Mr. Morton, " cried Mrs. Beaufort, surprisedand alarmed. "Arthur, whom we expect every day, writes us word that allsearch for him has been in vain. "

"Ha! you admit the search?" cried Morton, rising and clenching hishands. "And who else but you or yours would have parted brother andbrother? Answer me where he is. No subterfuge, madam: I am desperate!"

Mrs. Beaufort, though a woman of that worldly coldness and indifferencewhich, on ordinary occasions, supply the place of courage, was extremelyterrified by the tone and mien of her rude guest. She laid her handon the bell; but Morton seized her arm, and, holding it sternly, said, while his dark eyes shot fire through the glimmering room, "I willnot stir hence till you have told me. Will you reject my gratitude, myblessing? Beware! Again, where have you hid my brother?"

At that instant the door opened, and Mr. Robert Beaufort entered. Thelady, with a shriek of joy, wrenched herself from Philip's grasp, andflew to her husband. 

"Save me from this ruffian!" she said, with an hysterical sob. 

Mr. Beaufort, who had heard from Blackwell strange accounts of Philip'sobdurate perverseness, vile associates, and unredeemable character, wasroused from his usual timidity by the appeal of his wife. 

"Insolent reprobate!" he said, advancing to Philip; "after all theabsurd goodness of my son and myself; after rejecting all our offers, and persisting in your miserable and vicious conduct, how dare youpresume to force yourself into this house? Begone, or I will send forthe constables to remove YOU!

"Man, man, " cried Philip, restraining the fury that shook him from headto foot, "I care not for your threats--I scarcely hear your abuse--yourson, or yourself, has stolen away my brother: tell me only where he is;let me see him once more. Do not drive me hence, without one word ofjustice, of pity. I implore you--on my knees I implore you--yes, I, --Iimplore you, Robert Beaufort, to have mercy on your brother's son. Whereis Sidney?" Like all mean and cowardly men, Robert Beaufort was ratherencouraged than softened by Philip's abrupt humility. 

"I know nothing of your brother; and if this is not all some villainoustrick--which it may be--I am heartily rejoiced that he, poor child! isrescued from the contamination of such a companion, " answered Beaufort. 

"I am at your feet still; again, for the last time, clinging to you asuppliant: I pray you to tell me the truth. "

Mr. Beaufort, more and more exasperated by Morton's forbearance, raised his hand as if to strike; when, at that moment, one hithertounobserved--one who, terrified by the scene she had witnessed but couldnot comprehend, had slunk into a dark corner of the room, --now came fromher retreat. And a child's soft voice was heard, saying:

"Do not strike him, papa!--let him have his brother!" Mr. Beaufort's armfell to his side: kneeling before him, and by the outcast's side, washis own young daughter; she had crept into the room unobserved, when herfather entered. Through the dim shadows, relieved only by the red andfitful gleam of the fire, he saw her fair meek face looking up wistfullyat his own, with tears of excitement, and perhaps of pity--for childrenhave a quick insight into the reality of grief in those not far removedfrom their own years--glistening in her soft eyes. Philip looked roundbewildered, and he saw that face which seemed to him, at such a time, like the face of an angel. 

"Hear her!" he murmured: "Oh, hear her! For her sake, do not sever oneorphan from the other!"

"Take away that child, Mrs. Beaufort, " cried Robert, angrily. "Will youlet her disgrace herself thus? And you, sir, begone from this roof; andwhen you can approach me with due respect, I will give you, as I said Iwould, the means to get an honest living. "

Philip rose; Mrs. Beaufort had already led away her daughter, and shetook that opportunity of sending in the servants: their forms filled upthe doorway. 

"Will you go?" continued Mr. Beaufort, more and more emboldened, as hesaw the menials at hand, "or shall they expel you?"

"It is enough, sir, " said Philip, with a sudden calm and dignity thatsurprised and almost awed his uncle. "My father, if the dead yet watchover the living, has seen and heard you. There will come a day forjustice. Out of my path, hirelings!"

He waved his arm, and the menials shrank back at his tread, stalkedacross the inhospitable hall, and vanished. When he had gained thestreet, he turned and looked up at the house. His dark and hollow eyes, gleaming through the long and raven hair that fell profusely over hisface, had in them an expression of menace almost preternatural, from itssettled calmness; the wild and untutored majesty which, though rags andsqualor, never deserted his form, as it never does the forms of menin whom the will is strong and the sense of injustice deep; theoutstretched arm the haggard, but noble features; the bloomless andscathed youth, all gave to his features and his stature an aspect awfulin its sinister and voiceless wrath. There he stood a moment, like oneto whom woe and wrong have given a Prophet's power, guiding the eye ofthe unforgetful Fate to the roof of the Oppressor. Then slowly, and witha half smile, he turned away, and strode through the streets till hearrived at one of the narrow lanes that intersect the more equivocalquarters of the huge city. He stopped at the private entrance of a smallpawnbroker's shop; the door was opened by a slipshod boy; he ascendedthe dingy stairs till he came to the second floor; and there, in a smallback room, he found Captain de Burgh Smith, seated before a table witha couple of candles on it, smoking a cigar, and playing at cards byhimself. 

"Well, what news of your brother, Bully Phil?"

"None: they will reveal nothing. "

"Do you give him up?"

"Never! My hope now is in you. "

"Well, I thought you would be driven to come to me, and I will dosomething for you that I should not loike to do for myself. I told youthat I knew the Bow Street runner who was in the barouche. I will findhim out--Heaven knows that is easily done; and, if you can pay well, youwill get your news. "

"You shall have all I possess, if you restore my brother. See what itis, one hundred pounds--it was his fortune. It is useless to me withouthim. There, take fifty now, and if--"

Philip stopped, for his voice trembled too much to allow him fartherspeech. Captain Smith thrust the notes into his pocket, and said--

"We'll consider it settled. "

Captain Smith fulfilled his promise. He saw the Bow Street officer. Mr. Sharp had been bribed too high by the opposite party to tell tales, andhe willingly encouraged the suspicion that Sidney was under the careof the Beauforts. He promised, however, for the sake of ten guineas, to procure Philip a letter from Sidney himself. This was all he wouldundertake. 

Philip was satisfied. At the end of another week, Mr. Sharp transmittedto the Captain a letter, which he, in his turn, gave to Philip. It ranthus, in Sidney's own sprawling hand:

"DEAR BROTHER PHILIP, --I am told you wish to know how I am, and therforetake up my pen, and assure you that I write all out of my own head. Iam very Comfortable and happy--much more so than I have been since poordeir mama died; so I beg you won't vex yourself about me: and pray don'ttry and Find me out, For I would not go with you again for the world. I am so much better Off here. I wish you would be a good boy, and leaveoff your Bad ways; for I am sure, as every one says, I don't know whatwould have become of me if I had staid with you. Mr. [the Mr. Halfscratched out] the gentleman I am with, says if you turn out Properly, he will be a friend to you, Too; but he advises you to go, like a Goodboy, to Arthur Beaufort, and ask his pardon for the past, and thenArthur will be very kind to you. I send you a great Big sum of L20. , andthe gentleman says he would send more, only it might make you naughty, and set up. I go to church now every Sunday, and read good books, andalways pray that God may open your eyes. I have such a Nice Pony, withsuch a long tale. So no more at present from your affectionate brother, SIDNEY MORTON. "

Oct. 8, 18--

"Pray, pray don't come after me Any more. You know I neerly died of it, but for this deir good gentleman I am with. "

So this, then, was the crowning reward of all his sufferings and allhis love! There was the letter, evidently undictated, with its errorsof orthography, and in the child's rough scrawl; the serpent's toothpierced to the heart, and left there its most lasting venom. 

"I have done with him for ever, " said Philip, brushing away the bittertears. "I will molest him no farther; I care no more to pierce thismystery. Better for him as it is--he is happy! Well, well, and I--I willnever care for a human being again. "

He bowed his head over his hands; and when he rose, his heart felt tohim like stone. It seemed as if Conscience herself had fled from hissoul on the wings of departed Love. 

CHAPTER XII. 

 "But you have found the mountain's top--there sit On the calm flourishing head of it; And whilst with wearied steps we upward go, See us and clouds below. "--COWLEY. 

It was true that Sidney was happy in his new home, and thither we mustnow trace him. 

On reaching the town where the travellers in the barouche had beenrequested to leave Sidney, "The King's Arms" was precisely the inneschewed by Mr. Spencer. While the horses were being changed, hesummoned the surgeon of the town to examine the child, who had alreadymuch recovered; and by stripping his clothes, wrapping him in warmblankets, and administering cordials, he was permitted to reach anotherstage, so as to baffle pursuit that night; and in three days Mr. Spencerhad placed his new charge with his maiden sisters, a hundred and fiftymiles from the spot where he had been found. He would not take him tohis own home yet. He feared the claims of Arthur Beaufort. He artfullywrote to that gentleman, stating that he had abandoned the chase ofSidney in despair, and desiring to know if he had discovered him; and abribe of L300. To Mr. Sharp with a candid exposition of his reasonsfor secreting Sidney--reasons in which the worthy officer professed tosympathise--secured the discretion of his ally. But he would not denyhimself the pleasure of being in the same house with Sidney, and wastherefore for some months the guest of his sisters. At length he heardthat young Beaufort had been ordered abroad for his health, and hethen deemed it safe to transfer his new idol to his Lares by the lakes. During this interval the current of the younger Morton's life had indeedflowed through flowers. At his age the cares of females were almost awant as well as a luxury, and the sisters spoiled and petted him as muchas any elderly nymphs in Cytherea ever petted Cupid. They were good, excellent, high-nosed, flat-bosomed spinsters, sentimentally fond oftheir brother, whom they called "the poet, " and dotingly attached tochildren. The cleanness, the quiet, the good cheer of their neat abode, all tended to revive and invigorate the spirits of their young guest, and every one there seemed to vie which should love him the most. Stillhis especial favourite was Mr. Spencer: for Spencer never went outwithout bringing back cakes and toys; and Spencer gave him his pony; andSpencer rode a little crop-eared nag by his side; and Spencer, in short, was associated with his every comfort and caprice. He told them hislittle history; and when he said how Philip had left him alone for longhours together, and how Philip had forced him to his last and nearlyfatal journey, the old maids groaned, and the old bachelor sighed, andthey all cried in a breath, that "Philip was a very wicked boy. " It wasnot only their obvious policy to detach him from his brother, but it wastheir sincere conviction that they did right to do so. Sidney began, itis true, by taking Philip's part; but his mind was ductile, and he stilllooked back with a shudder to the hardships he had gone through: andso by little and little he learned to forget all the endearing andfostering love Philip had evinced to him; to connect his name with darkand mysterious fears; to repeat thanksgivings to Providence that he wassaved from him; and to hope that they might never meet again. In fact, when Mr. Spencer learned from Sharp that it was through Captain Smith, the swindler, that application had been made by Philip for news of hisbrother, and having also learned before, from the same person, thatPhilip had been implicated in the sale of a horse, swindled, if notstolen, he saw every additional reason to widen the stream that flowedbetween the wolf and the lamb. The older Sidney grew, the better hecomprehended and appreciated the motives of his protector--for he wasbrought up in a formal school of propriety and ethics, and his mindnaturally revolted from all images of violence or fraud. Mr. Spencerchanged both the Christian and the surname of his protege, in order toelude the search whether of Philip, the Mortons, or the Beauforts, andSidney passed for his nephew by a younger brother who had died in India. 

So there, by the calm banks of the placid lake, amidst the fairestlandscapes of the Island Garden, the youngest born of Catherine passedhis tranquil days. The monotony of the retreat did not fatigue a spiritwhich, as he grew up, found occupation in books, music, poetry, and theelegances of the cultivated, if quiet, life within his reach. To therough past he looked back as to an evil dream, in which the image ofPhilip stood dark and threatening. His brother's name as he grew olderhe rarely mentioned; and if he did volunteer it to Mr. Spencer, thebloom on his cheek grew paler. The sweetness of his manners, his fairface and winning smile, still continued to secure him love, and toscreen from the common eye whatever of selfishness yet lurked in hisnature. And, indeed, that fault in so serene a career, and with friendsso attached, was seldom called into action. So thus was he severedfrom both the protectors, Arthur and Philip, to whom poor Catherine hadbequeathed him. 

By a perverse and strange mystery, they, to whom the charge was mostintrusted were the very persons who were forbidden to redeem it. Onour death-beds when we think we have provided for those we leavebehind--should we lose the last smile that gilds the solemn agony, if wecould look one year into the Future?

Arthur Beaufort, after an ineffectual search for Sidney, heard, onreturning to his home, no unexaggerated narrative of Philip's visit, andlistened, with deep resentment, to his mother's distorted account of thelanguage addressed to her. It is not to be surprised that, with allhis romantic generosity, he felt sickened and revolted at violence thatseemed to him without excuse. Though not a revengeful character, he hadnot that meekness which never resents. He looked upon Philip Morton asupon one rendered incorrigible by bad passions and evil company. Still Catherine's last request, and Philip's note to him, the UnknownComforter, often recurred to him, and he would have willingly yet aidedhim had Philip been thrown in his way. But as it was, when he lookedaround, and saw the examples of that charity that begins at home, in which the world abounds, he felt as if he had done his duty; andprosperity having, though it could not harden his heart, still sappedthe habits of perseverance, so by little and little the image ofthe dying Catherine, and the thought of her sons, faded from hisremembrance. And for this there was the more excuse after the receipt ofan anonymous letter, which relieved all his apprehensions on behalf ofSidney. The letter was short, and stated simply that Sidney Morton hadfound a friend who would protect him throughout life; but who would notscruple to apply to Beaufort if ever he needed his assistance. So oneson, and that the youngest and the best loved, was safe. And the other, had he not chosen his own career? Alas, poor Catherine! when you fanciedthat Philip was the one sure to force his way into fortune, and Sidneythe one most helpless, how ill did you judge of the human heart! Itwas that very strength of Philip's nature which tempted the winds thatscattered the blossoms, and shook the stem to its roots; while thelighter and frailer nature bent to the gale, and bore transplanting to ahappier soil. If a parent read these pages, let him pause and think wellon the characters of his children; let him at once fear and hope themost for the one whose passions and whose temper lead to a struggle withthe world. That same world is a tough wrestler, and has a bear's gripe. 

Meanwhile, Arthur Beaufort's own complaints, which grew serious andmenaced consumption, recalled his thoughts more and more every day tohimself. He was compelled to abandon his career at the University, and to seek for health in the softer breezes of the South. His parentsaccompanied him to Nice; and when, at the end of a few months, he wasrestored to health, the desire of travel seized the mind and attractedthe fancy of the young heir. His father and mother, satisfied withhis recovery, and not unwilling that he should acquire the polish ofContinental intercourse, returned to England; and young Beaufort, withgay companions and munificent income, already courted, spoiled, andflattered, commenced his tour with the fair climes of Italy. 

So, O dark mystery of the Moral World!--so, unlike the order of theExternal Universe, glide together, side by side, the shadowy steedsof NIGHT AND MORNING. Examine life in its own world; confound not thatworld, the inner one, the practical one, with the more visible, yetairier and less substantial system, doing homage to the sun, to whosethrone, afar in the infinite space, the human heart has no wings toflee. In life, the mind and the circumstance give the true seasons, andregulate the darkness and the light. Of two men standing on the samefoot of earth, the one revels in the joyous noon, the other shuddersin the solitude of night. For Hope and Fortune, the day-star is evershining. For Care and Penury, Night changes not with the ticking of theclock, nor with the shadow on the dial. Morning for the heir, night forthe houseless, and God's eye over both. 

BOOK III. 

CHAPTER I. 

 "The knight of arts and industry, And his achievements fair. " THOMSON'S Castle of Indolence: Explanatory Verse to Canto II. 

In a popular and respectable, but not very fashionable quartier inParis, and in the tolerably broad and effective locale of the Rue ----, there might be seen, at the time I now treat of, a curious-lookingbuilding, that jutted out semicircularly from the neighbouring shops, with plaster pilasters and compo ornaments. The virtuosi of the quartierhad discovered that the building was constructed in imitation of anancient temple in Rome; this erection, then fresh and new, reached onlyto the entresol. The pilasters were painted light green and gildedin the cornices, while, surmounting the architrave, were three littlestatues--one held a torch, another a bow, and a third a bag; they weretherefore rumoured, I know not with what justice, to be the artisticalrepresentatives of Hymen, Cupid and Fortune. 

On the door was neatly engraved, on a brass plate, the followinginscription:

 "MONSIEUR LOVE, ANGLAIS, A L'ENTRESOL. "

And if you had crossed the threshold and mounted the stairs, and gainedthat mysterious story inhabited by Monsieur Love, you would have seen, upon another door to the right, another epigraph, informing thoseinterested in the inquiry that the bureau, of M. Love was open dailyfrom nine in the morning to four in the afternoon. 

The office of M. Love--for office it was, and of a nature notunfrequently designated in the "petites affiches" of Paris--had beenestablished about six months; and whether it was the popularity of theprofession, or the shape of the shop, or the manners of M. Love himself, I cannot pretend to say, but certain it is that the Temple of Hymen--asM. Love classically termed it--had become exceedingly in vogue in theFaubourg St. --. It was rumoured that no less than nine marriages in theimmediate neighbourhood had been manufactured at this fortunate office, and that they had all turned out happily except one, in which the bridebeing sixty, and the bridegroom twenty-four, there had been rumours ofdomestic dissension; but as the lady had been delivered, --I mean of herhusband, who had drowned himself in the Seine, about a month after theceremony, things had turned out in the long run better than might havebeen expected, and the widow was so little discouraged; that she hadbeen seen to enter the office already--a circumstance that was greatlyto the credit of Mr. Love. 

Perhaps the secret of Mr. Love's success, and of the marked superiorityof his establishment in rank and popularity over similar ones, consistedin the spirit and liberality with which the business was conducted. He seemed resolved to destroy all formality between parties who mightdesire to draw closer to each other, and he hit upon the lucky deviceof a table d'hote, very well managed, and held twice a-week, and oftenfollowed by a soiree dansante; so that, if they pleased, the aspirantsto matrimonial happiness might become acquainted without gene. Ashe himself was a jolly, convivial fellow of much savoir vivre, it isastonishing how well he made these entertainments answer. Persons whohad not seemed to take to each other in the first distant interview grewextremely enamoured when the corks of the champagne--an extra of coursein the abonnement--bounced against the wall. Added to this, Mr. Lovetook great pains to know the tradesmen in his neighbourhood; and, whatwith his jokes, his appearance of easy circumstances, and the fluencywith which he spoke the language, he became a universal favourite. Manypersons who were uncommonly starched in general, and who professed toridicule the bureau, saw nothing improper in dining at the table d'hote. To those who wished for secrecy he was said to be wonderfully discreet;but there were others who did not affect to conceal their discontent atthe single state: for the rest, the entertainments were so contrived asnever to shock the delicacy, while they always forwarded the suit. 

It was about eight o'clock in the evening, and Mr. Love was still seatedat dinner, or rather at dessert, with a party of guests. His apartments, though small, were somewhat gaudily painted and furnished, and hisdining-room was decorated a la Turque. The party consisted-first, of arich epicier, a widower, Monsieur Goupille by name, an eminent man inthe Faubourg; he was in his grand climacteric, but still belhomme; worea very well-made peruque of light auburn, with tight pantaloons, whichcontained a pair of very respectable calves; and his white neckclothand his large gill were washed and got up with especial care. Next toMonsieur Goupille sat a very demure and very spare young lady of abouttwo-and-thirty, who was said to have saved a fortune--Heaven knowshow--in the family of a rich English milord, where she had officiatedas governess; she called herself Mademoiselle Adele de Courval, and wasvery particular about the de, and very melancholy about her ancestors. Monsieur Goupille generally put his finger through his peruque, and fellaway a little on his left pantaloon when he spoke to Mademoiselle deCourval, and Mademoiselle de Courval generally pecked at her bouquetwhen she answered Monsieur Goupille. On the other side of this younglady sat a fine-looking fair man--M. Sovolofski, a Pole, buttoned up tothe chin, and rather threadbare, though uncommonly neat. He wasflanked by a little fat lady, who had been very pretty, and who kept aboarding-house, or pension, for the English, she herself being English, though long established in Paris. Rumour said she had been gay in heryouth, and dropped in Paris by a Russian nobleman, with a very prettysettlement, she and the settlement having equally expanded by time andseason: she was called Madame Beavor. On the other side of the table wasa red-headed Englishman, who spoke very little French; who had been toldthat French ladies were passionately fond of light hair; and who, havingL2000. Of his own, intended to quadruple that sum by a prudent marriage. Nobody knew what his family was, but his name was Higgins. His neighbourwas an exceedingly tall, large-boned Frenchman, with a long nose anda red riband, who was much seen at Frascati's, and had served underNapoleon. Then came another lady, extremely pretty, very piquante, andvery gay, but past the premiere jeunesse, who ogled Mr. Love more thanshe did any of his guests: she was called Rosalie Caumartin, and was atthe head of a large bon-bon establishment; married, but her husband hadgone four years ago to the Isle of France, and she was a little doubtfulwhether she might not be justly entitled to the privileges of a widow. Next to Mr. Love, in the place of honour, sat no less a person than theVicomte de Vaudemont, a French gentleman, really well-born, but whosevarious excesses, added to his poverty, had not served to sustain thatrespect for his birth which he considered due to it. He had alreadybeen twice married; once to an Englishwoman, who had been decoyed by thetitle; by this lady, who died in childbed, he had one son; a fact whichhe sedulously concealed from the world of Paris by keeping the unhappyboy--who was now some eighteen or nineteen years old--a perpetual exilein England. Monsieur de Vaudemont did not wish to pass for more thanthirty, and he considered that to produce a son of eighteen would be tomake the lad a monster of ingratitude by giving the lie every hour tohis own father! In spite of this precaution the Vicomte found greatdifficulty in getting a third wife--especially as he had no actualland and visible income; was, not seamed, but ploughed up, with thesmall-pox; small of stature, and was considered more than un peubete. He was, however, a prodigious dandy, and wore a lace frilland embroidered waistcoat. Mr. Love's vis-a-vis was Mr. Birnie, anEnglishman, a sort of assistant in the establishment, with a hard, dry, parchment face, and a remarkable talent for silence. The host himselfwas a splendid animal; his vast chest seemed to occupy more space at thetable than any four of his guests, yet he was not corpulent or unwieldy;he was dressed in black, wore a velvet stock very high, and four goldstuds glittered in his shirt-front; he was bald to the crown, which madehis forehead appear singularly lofty, and what hair he had left wasa little greyish and curled; his face was shaved smoothly, except aclose-clipped mustache; and his eyes, though small, were bright andpiercing. Such was the party. 

"These are the best bon-bons I ever ate, " said Mr. Love, glancing atMadame Caumartin. "My fair friends, have compassion on the table of apoor bachelor. "

"But you ought not to be a bachelor, Monsieur Lofe, " replied the fairRosalie, with an arch look; "you who make others marry, should set theexample. "

"All in good time, " answered Mr. Love, nodding; "one serves one'scustomers to so much happiness that one has none left for one's self. "

Here a loud explosion was heard. Monsieur Goupille had pulled one of thebon-bon crackers with Mademoiselle Adele. 

"I've got the motto!--no--Monsieur has it: I'm always unlucky, " said thegentle Adele. 

The epicier solemnly unrolled the little slip of paper; the print wasvery small, and he longed to take out his spectacles, but he thoughtthat would make him look old. However, he spelled through the motto withsome difficulty:--

 "Comme elle fait soumettre un coeur, En refusant son doux hommage, On peut traiter la coquette en vainqueur; De la beauty modeste on cherit l'esclavage. "

 [The coquette, who subjugates a heart, yet refuses its tender homage, one may treat as a conqueror: of modest beauty we cherish the slavery. ]

"I present it to Mademoiselle, " said he, laying the motto solemnly inAdele's plate, upon a little mountain of chestnut-husks. 

"It is very pretty, " said she, looking down. 

"It is very a propos, " whispered the epicier, caressing the peruque alittle too roughly in his emotion. Mr. Love gave him a kick under thetable, and put his finger to his own bald head, and then to his nose, significantly. The intelligent epicier smoothed back the irritatedperuque. 

"Are you fond of bon-bons, Mademoiselle Adele? I have a very fine stockat home, " said Monsieur Goupille. Mademoiselle Adele de Courval sighed:"Helas! they remind me of happier days, when I was a petite and mydear grandmamma took me in her lap and told me how she escaped theguillotine: she was an emigree, and you know her father was a marquis. "

The epicier bowed and looked puzzled. He did not quite see theconnection between the bon-bons and the guillotine. "You are triste, Monsieur, " observed Madame Beavor, in rather a piqued tone, to the Pole, who had not said a word since the roti. 

"Madame, an exile is always triste: I think of my pauvre pays. "

"Bah!" cried Mr. Love. "Think that there is no exile by the side of abelle dame. "

The Pole smiled mournfully. 

"Pull it, " said Madame Beavor, holding a cracker to the patriot, andturning away her face. 

"Yes, madame; I wish it were a cannon in defence of La Pologne. "

With this magniloquent aspiration, the gallant Sovolofski pulledlustily, and then rubbed his fingers, with a little grimace, observingthat crackers were sometimes dangerous, and that the present combustiblewas d'une force immense. 

 "Helas! J'ai cru jusqu'a ce jour Pouvoir triompher de l'amour, "

 [Alas! I believed until to-day that I could triumph over love. ]

said Madame Beavor, reading the motto. "What do you say to that?"

"Madame, there is no triumph for La Pologne!" Madame Beavor uttered alittle peevish exclamation, and glanced in despair at her red-headedcountryman. "Are you, too, a great politician, sir?" said she inEnglish. 

"No, mem!--I'm all for the ladies. "

"What does he say?" asked Madame Caumartin. 

"Monsieur Higgins est tout pour les dames. "

"To be sure he is, " cried Mr. Love; "all the English are, especiallywith that coloured hair; a lady who likes a passionate adorer shouldalways marry a man with gold-coloured hair--always. What do you say, Mademoiselle Adele?"

"Oh, I like fair hair, " said Mademoiselle, looking bashfully askewat Monsieur Goupille's peruque. "Grandmamma said her papa--themarquis--used yellow powder: it must have been very pretty. "

"Rather a la sucre d' orge, " remarked the epicier, smiling on the rightside of his mouth, where his best teeth were. Mademoiselle de Courvallooked displeased. "I fear you are a republican, Monsieur Goupille. "

"I, Mademoiselle. No; I'm for the Restoration;" and again theepicier perplexed himself to discover the association of idea betweenrepublicanism and sucre d'orge. 

"Another glass of wine. Come, another, " said Mr. Love, stretching acrossthe Vicomte to help Madame Canmartin. 

"Sir, " said the tall Frenchman with the riband, eying the epicierwith great disdain, "you say you are for the Restoration--I am for theEmpire--Moi!"

"No politics!" cried Mr. Love. "Let us adjourn to the salon. "

The Vicomte, who had seemed supremely ennuye during this dialogue, plucked Mr. Love by the sleeve as he rose, and whispered petulantly, "Ido not see any one here to suit me, Monsieur Love--none of my rank. "

"Mon Dieu!" answered Mr. Love: "point d' argent point de Suisse. Icould introduce you to a duchess, but then the fee is high. There'sMademoiselle de Courval--she dates from the Carlovingians. "

"She is very like a boiled sole, " answered the Vicomte, with a wry face. "Still-what dower has she?"

"Forty thousand francs, and sickly, " replied Mr. Love; "but she likes atall man, and Monsieur Goupille is--"

"Tall men are never well made, " interrupted the Vicomte, angrily; andhe drew himself aside as Mr. Love, gallantly advancing, gave his arm toMadame Beavor, because the Pole had, in rising, folded both his own armsacross his breast. 

"Excuse me, ma'am, " said Mr. Love to Madame Beavor, as they adjourned tothe salon, "I don't think you manage that brave man well. "

"Ma foi, comme il est ennuyeux avec sa Pologne, " replied Madame Beavor, shrugging her shoulders. 

"True; but he is a very fine-shaped man; and it is a comfort to thinkthat one will have no rival but his country. Trust me, and encourage hima little more; I think he would suit you to a T. "

Here the attendant engaged for the evening announced Monsieur and MadameGiraud; whereupon there entered a little--little couple, very fair, veryplump, and very like each other. This was Mr. Love's show couple--hisdecoy ducks--his last best example of match-making; they had beenmarried two months out of the bureau, and were the admiration of theneighbourhood for their conjugal affection. As they were now united, they had ceased to frequent the table d'hote; but Mr. Love often invitedthem after the dessert, pour encourager les autres. 

"My dear friends, " cried Mr. Love, shaking each by the hand, "I amravished to see you. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Monsieurand Madame Giraud, the happiest couple in Christendom;--if I had donenothing else in my life but bring them together I should not have livedin vain!"

The company eyed the objects of this eulogium with great attention. 

"Monsieur, my prayer is to deserve my bonheur, " said Monsieur Giraud. 

"Cher ange!" murmured Madame: and the happy pair seated themselves nextto each other. 

Mr. Love, who was all for those innocent pastimes which do away withconventional formality and reserve, now proposed a game at "Hunt theSlipper, " which was welcomed by the whole party, except the Pole and theVicomte; though Mademoiselle Adele looked prudish, and observed to theepicier, "that Monsieur Lofe was so droll, but she should not have likedher pauvre grandmaman to see her. "

The Vicomte had stationed himself opposite to Mademoiselle de Courval, and kept his eyes fixed on her very tenderly. 

"Mademoiselle, I see, does not approve of such bourgeois diversions, "said he. 

"No, monsieur, " said the gentle Adele. "But I think we must sacrificeour own tastes to those of the company. "

"It is a very amiable sentiment, " said the epicier. 

"It is one attributed to grandmamma's papa, the Marquis de Courval. Ithas become quite a hackneyed remark since, " said Adele. 

"Come, ladies, " said the joyous Rosalie; "I volunteer my slipper. "

"Asseyez-vous donc, " said Madame Beavor to the Pole. "Have you no gamesof this sort in Poland?"

"Madame, La Pologne is no more, " said the Pole. "But with the swords ofher brave--"

"No swords here, if you please, " said Mr. Love, putting his vast handson the Pole's shoulder, and sinking him forcibly down into the circlenow formed. 

The game proceeded with great vigour and much laughter from Rosalie, Mr. Love, and Madame Beavor, especially whenever the last thumped the Polewith the heel of the slipper. Monsieur Giraud was always sure thatMadame Giraud had the slipper about her, which persuasion on his partgave rise to many little endearments, which are always so innocent amongmarried people. The Vicomte and the epicier were equally certain theslipper was with Mademoiselle Adele, who defended herself with muchmore energy than might have been supposed in one so gentle. The epicier, however, grew jealous of the attentions of his noble rival, and toldhim that he gene'd mademoiselle; whereupon the Vicomte called him animpertinent; and the tall Frenchman, with the riband, sprang up andsaid:

"Can I be of any assistance, gentlemen?"

Therewith Mr. Love, the great peacemaker, interposed, and reconcilingthe rivals, proposed to change the game to Colin Maillard-Anglice, "Blind Man's Buff. " Rosalie clapped her hands, and offered herself to beblindfolded. The tables and chairs were cleared away; and Madame Beaverpushed the Pole into Rosalie's arms, who, having felt him about the facefor some moments, guessed him to be the tall Frenchman. During this timeMonsieur and Madame Giraud hid themselves behind the window-curtain. 

"Amuse yourself, men ami, " said Madame Beaver, to the liberated Pole. 

"Ah, madame, " sighed Monsieur Sovolofski, "how can I be gay! Allmy property confiscated by the Emperor of Russia! Has La Pologne noBrutus?"

"I think you are in love, " said the host, clapping him on the back. 

"Are you quite sure, " whispered the Pole to the matchmaker, "that MadameBeavor has vingt mille livres de rentes?"

"Not a sous less. "

The Pole mused, and, glancing at Madame Beavor, said, "And yet, madame, your charming gaiety consoles me amidst all my suffering;" upon whichMadame Beavor called him "flatterer, " and rapped his knuckles with herfan; the latter proceeding the brave Pole did not seem to like, for heimmediately buried his hands in his trousers' pockets. 

The game was now at its meridian. Rosalie was uncommonly active, andflew about here and there, much to the harassment of the Pole, whorepeatedly wiped his forehead, and observed that it was warm work, and put him in mind of the last sad battle for La Pologne. MonsieurGoupille, who had lately taken lessons in dancing, and was vain of hisagility--mounted the chairs and tables, as Rosalie approached--withgreat grace and gravity. It so happened that, in these saltations, he ascended a stool near the curtain behind which Monsieur and MadameGiraud were ensconced. Somewhat agitated by a slight flutter behindthe folds, which made him fancy, on the sudden panic, that Rosalie wascreeping that way, the epicier made an abrupt pirouette, and the hook onwhich the curtains were suspended caught his left coat-tail, "The fatal vesture left the unguarded side;"

just as he turned to extricate the garment from that dilemma, Rosaliesprang upon him, and naturally lifting her hands to that height whereshe fancied the human face divine, took another extremity of MonsieurGoupille's graceful frame thus exposed, by surprise. 

"I don't know who this is. Quelle drole de visage!" muttered Rosalie. 

"Mais, madame, " faltered Monsieur Goupille, looking greatlydisconcerted. 

The gentle Adele, who did not seem to relish this adventure, came to therelief of her wooer, and pinched Rosalie very sharply in the arm. 

"That's not fair. But I will know who this is, " cried Rosalie, angrily;"you sha'n't escape!"

A sudden and universal burst of laughter roused her suspicions--she drewback--and exclaiming, "Mais quelle mauvaise plaisanterie; c'est tropfort!" applied her fair hand to the place in dispute, with so heartya good-will, that Monsieur Goupille uttered a dolorous cry, andsprang from the chair leaving the coat-tail (the cause of all his woe)suspended upon the hook. 

It was just at this moment, and in the midst of the excitement caused byMonsieur Goupille's misfortune, that the door opened, and the attendantreappeared, followed by a young man in a large cloak. 

The new-comer paused at the threshold, and gazed around him in evidentsurprise. 

"Diable!" said Mr. Love, approaching, and gazing hard at the stranger. "Is it possible?--You are come at last? Welcome!"

"But, " said the stranger, apparently still bewildered, "there is somemistake; you are not--"

"Yes, I am Mr. Love!--Love all the world over. How is our friendGregg?--told you to address yourself to Mr. Love, --eh?--Mum!--Ladiesand gentlemen, an acquisition to our party. Fine fellow, eh?--Five feeteleven without his shoes, --and young enough to hope to be thrice marriedbefore he dies. When did you arrive?"

"To-day. "

And thus, Philip Morton and Mr. William Gawtrey met once more. 

CHAPTER II. 

"Happy the man who, void of care and strife, In silken or in leathernpurse retains A splendid shilling!"--The Splendid Shilling. 

"And wherefore should they take or care for thought, The unreasoningvulgar willingly obey, And leaving toil and poverty behind. Run forth bydifferent ways, the blissful boon to find. " WEST'S Education. 

"Poor, boy! your story interests me. The events are romantic, but themoral is practical, old, everlasting--life, boy, life. Poverty by itselfis no such great curse; that is, if it stops short of starving. Andpassion by itself is a noble thing, sir; but poverty and passiontogether--poverty and feeling--poverty and pride--the poverty one isnot born to, --but falls into;--and the man who ousts you out of youreasy-chair, kicking you with every turn he takes, as he settles himselfmore comfortably--why there's no romance in that--hard every-day life, sir! Well, well:--so after your brother's letter you resigned yourselfto that fellow Smith. "

"No; I gave him my money, not my soul. I turned from his door, witha few shillings that he himself thrust into my hand, and walked on--Icared not whither--out of the town, into the fields--till night came;and then, just as I suddenly entered on the high-road, many miles away, the moon rose; and I saw, by the hedge-side, something that seemedlike a corpse; it was an old beggar, in the last state of raggedness, disease, and famine. He had laid himself down to die. I shared with himwhat I had, and helped him to a little inn. As he crossed the threshold, he turned round and blessed me. Do you know, the moment I heard thatblessing a stone seemed rolled away from my heart? I said to myself, 'What then! even I can be of use to some one; and I am better off thanthat old man, for I have youth and health. ' As these thoughts stirred inme, my limbs, before heavy with fatigue, grew light; a strange kind ofexcitement seized me. I ran on gaily beneath the moonlight that smiledover the crisp, broad road. I felt as if no house, not even a palace, were large enough for me that night. And when, at last, wearied out, Icrept into a wood, and laid myself down to sleep, I still murmured tomyself, 'I have youth and health. ' But, in the morning, when I rose, Istretched out my arms, and missed my brother!. .. In two or three days Ifound employment with a farmer; but we quarrelled after a few weeks; foronce he wished to strike me; and somehow or other I could work, but notserve. Winter had begun when we parted. --Oh, such a winter!--Then--thenI knew what it was to be houseless. How I lived for some months--if tolive it can be called--it would pain you to hear, and humble me to tell. At last, I found myself again in London; and one evening, not many dayssince, I resolved at last--for nothing else seemed left, and I had nottouched food for two days--to come to you. "

"And why did that never occur to you before?"!

"Because, " said Philip, with a deep blush, --"because I trembled at thepower over my actions and my future life that I was to give to one, whomI was to bless as a benefactor, yet distrust as a guide. "

"Well, " said Love, or Gawtrey, with a singular mixture of irony andcompassion in his voice; "and it was hunger, then, that terrified you atlast even more than I?"

"Perhaps hunger--or perhaps rather the reasoning that comes from hunger. I had not, I say, touched food for two days; and I was standing onthat bridge, from which on one side you see the palace of a head of theChurch, on the other the towers of the Abbey, within which the men Ihave read of in history lie buried. It was a cold, frosty evening, andthe river below looked bright with the lamps and stars. I leaned, weakand sickening, against the wall of the bridge; and in one of the archedrecesses beside me a cripple held out his hat for pence. I enviedhim!--he had a livelihood; he was inured to it, perhaps bred to it; hehad no shame. By a sudden impulse, I, too, turned abruptly round--heldout my hand to the first passenger, and started at the shrillness of myown voice, as it cried 'Charity. '"

Gawtrey threw another log on the fire, looked complacently round thecomfortable room, and rubbed his hands. The young man continued, --

"'You should be ashamed of yourself--I've a great mind to give you tothe police, ' was the answer, in a pert and sharp tone. I looked up, andsaw the livery my father's menials had worn. I had been begging mybread from Robert Beaufort's lackey! I said nothing; the man went on hisbusiness on tiptoe, that the mud might not splash above the soles of hisshoes. Then, thoughts so black that they seemed to blot out every starfrom the sky--thoughts I had often wrestled against, but to which I nowgave myself up with a sort of mad joy--seized me: and I remembered you. I had still preserved the address you gave me; I went straight to thehouse. Your friend, on naming you, received me kindly, andwithout question placed food before me--pressed on me clothing andmoney--procured me a passport--gave me your address--and now I ambeneath your roof. Gawtrey, I know nothing yet of the world but the darkside of it. I know not what to deem you--but as you alone have beenkind to me, so it is to your kindness rather than your aid, that Inow cling--your kind words and kind looks-yet--" he stopped short, andbreathed hard. 

"Yet you would know more of me. Faith, my boy, I cannot tell you more atthis moment. I believe, to speak fairly, I don't live exactly within thepale of the law. But I'm not a villain! I never plundered my friend andcalled it play!--I never murdered my friend and called it honour!--Inever seduced my friend's wife and called it gallantry!" As Gawtreysaid this, he drew the words out, one by one, through his grinded teeth, paused and resumed more gaily: "I struggle with Fortune; voila tout! Iam not what you seem to suppose--not exactly a swindler, certainly not arobber! But, as I before told you, I am a charlatan, so is every man whostrives to be richer or greater than he is. 

"I, too, want kindness as much as you do. My bread and my cup are atyour service. I will try and keep you unsullied, even by the cleandirt that now and then sticks to me. On the other hand, youth, my youngfriend, has no right to play the censor; and you must take me as youtake the world, without being over-scrupulous and dainty. My presentvocation pays well; in fact, I am beginning to lay by. My real nameand past life are thoroughly unknown, and as yet unsuspected, in thisquartier; for though I have seen much of Paris, my career hitherto haspassed in other parts of the city;--and for the rest, own that I am welldisguised! What a benevolent air this bald forehead gives me--eh? True, "added Gawtrey, somewhat more seriously, "if I saw how you could supportyourself in a broader path of life than that in which I pick out my ownway, I might say to you, as a gay man of fashion might say to some soberstripling--nay, as many a dissolute father says (or ought to say) to hisson, 'It is no reason you should be a sinner, because I am not a saint. 'In a word, if you were well off in a respectable profession, you mighthave safer acquaintances than myself. But, as it is, upon my word as aplain man, I don't see what you can do better. " Gawtrey made this speechwith so much frankness and ease, that it seemed greatly to relieve thelistener, and when he wound up with, "What say you? In fine, my life isthat of a great schoolboy, getting into scrapes for the fun of it, andfighting his way out as he best can!--Will you see how you like it?"Philip, with a confiding and grateful impulse, put his hand intoGawtrey's. The host shook it cordially, and, without saying anotherword, showed his guest into a little cabinet where there was a sofa-bed, and they parted for the night. The new life upon which Philip Mortonentered was so odd, so grotesque, and so amusing, that at his age itwas, perhaps, natural that he should not be clear-sighted as to itsdanger. 

William Gawtrey was one of those men who are born to exert a certaininfluence and ascendency wherever they may be thrown; his vast strength, his redundant health, had a power of themselves--a moral as well asphysical power. He naturally possessed high animal spirits, beneaththe surface of which, however, at times, there was visible a certainundercurrent of malignity and scorn. He had evidently received asuperior education, and could command at will the manner of a man notunfamiliar with a politer class of society. From the first hour thatPhilip had seen him on the top of the coach on the R---- road, this manhad attracted his curiosity and interest; the conversation he had heardin the churchyard, the obligations he owed to Gawtrey in his escape fromthe officers of justice, the time afterwards passed in his societytill they separated at the little inn, the rough and hearty kindlinessGawtrey had shown him at that period, and the hospitality extended tohim now, --all contributed to excite his fancy, and in much, indeed verymuch, entitled this singular person to his gratitude. Morton, in a word, was fascinated; this man was the only friend he had made. I have notthought it necessary to detail to the reader the conversations that hadtaken place between them, during that passage of Morton's life when hewas before for some days Gawtrey's companion; yet those conversationshad sunk deep in his mind. He was struck, and almost awed, by theprofound gloom which lurked under Gawtrey's broad humour--a gloom, notof temperament, but of knowledge. His views of life, of human justiceand human virtue, were (as, to be sure, is commonly the case with menwho have had reason to quarrel with the world) dreary and despairing;and Morton's own experience had been so sad, that these opinions weremore influential than they could ever have been with the happy. Howeverin this, their second reunion, there was a greater gaiety than intheir first; and under his host's roof Morton insensibly, but rapidly, recovered something of the early and natural tone of his impetuous andardent spirits. Gawtrey himself was generally a boon companion; theirsociety, if not select, was merry. When their evenings were disengaged, Gawtrey was fond of haunting cafes and theatres, and Morton was hiscompanion; Birnie (Mr. Gawtrey's partner) never accompanied them. Refreshed by this change of life, the very person of this young manregained its bloom and vigour, as a plant, removed from some chokedatmosphere and unwholesome soil, where it had struggled for lightand air, expands on transplanting; the graceful leaves burst from thelong-drooping boughs, and the elastic crest springs upward to the sunin the glory of its young prime. If there was still a certain fierysternness in his aspect, it had ceased, at least, to be haggardand savage, it even suited the character of his dark and expressivefeatures. He might not have lost the something of the tiger in hisfierce temper, but in the sleek hues and the sinewy symmetry of theframe he began to put forth also something of the tiger's beauty. 

Mr. Birnie did not sleep in the house, he went home nightly to a lodgingat some little distance. We have said but little about this man, for, toall appearance, there was little enough to say; he rarely opened his ownmouth except to Gawtrey, with whom Philip often observed him engaged inwhispered conferences, to which he was not admitted. His eye, however, was less idle than his lips; it was not a bright eye: on the contrary, it was dull, and, to the unobservant, lifeless, of a pale blue, with adim film over it--the eye of a vulture; but it had in it a calm, heavy, stealthy watchfulness, which inspired Morton with great distrust andaversion. Mr. Birnie not only spoke French like a native, but all hishabits, his gestures, his tricks of manner, were, French; not the Frenchof good society, but more idiomatic, as it were, and popular. He wasnot exactly a vulgar person, he was too silent for that, but he wasevidently of low extraction and coarse breeding; his accomplishmentswere of a mechanical nature; he was an extraordinary arithmetician, hewas a very skilful chemist, and kept a laboratory at his lodgings--hemended his own clothes and linen with incomparable neatness. Philipsuspected him of blacking his own shoes, but that was prejudice. Oncehe found Morton sketching horses' heads--pour se desennuyer; and he madesome short criticisms on the drawings, which showed him well acquaintedwith the art. Philip, surprised, sought to draw him into conversation;but Birnie eluded the attempt, and observed that he had once been anengraver. 

Gawtrey himself did not seem to know much of the early life of thisperson, or at least he did not seem to like much to talk of him. Thefootstep of Mr. Birnie was gliding, noiseless, and catlike; he had nosociality in him--enjoyed nothing--drank hard--but was never drunk. Somehow or other, he had evidently over Gawtrey an influence littleless than that which Gawtrey had over Morton, but it was of a differentnature: Morton had conceived an extraordinary affection for his friend, while Gawtrey seemed secretly to dislike Birnie, and to be glad wheneverhe quitted his presence. It was, in truth, Gawtrey's custom when Birnieretired for the night, to rub his hands, bring out the punchbowl, squeeze the lemons, and while Philip, stretched on the sofa, listened tohim, between sleep and waking, to talk on for the hour together, often till daybreak, with that bizarre mixture of knavery and feeling, drollery and sentiment, which made the dangerous charm of his society. 

One evening as they thus sat together, Morton, after listening for sometime to his companion's comments on men and things, said abruptly, --

"Gawtrey! there is so much in you that puzzles me, so much which I findit difficult to reconcile with your present pursuits, that, if I askno indiscreet confidence, I should like greatly to hear some account ofyour early life. It would please me to compare it with my own; when I amyour age, I will then look back and see what I owed to your example. "

"My early life! well--you shall hear it. It will put you on your guard, I hope, betimes against the two rocks of youth--love and friendship. "Then, while squeezing the lemon into his favourite beverage, whichMorton observed he made stronger than usual, Gawtrey thus commenced:

 THE HISTORY OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. 

CHAPTER III. 

 "All his success must on himself depend, He had no money, counsel, guide, or friend; With spirit high John learned the world to brave, And in both senses was a ready knave. "--CRABBE. 

"My grandfather sold walking-sticks and umbrellas in the little passageby Exeter 'Change; he was a man of genius and speculation. As soon as hehad scraped together a little money, he lent it to some poor devil witha hard landlord, at twenty per cent. , and made him take half the loanin umbrellas or bamboos. By these means he got his foot into the ladder, and climbed upward and upward, till, at the age of forty, he had amassedL5, 000. He then looked about for a wife. An honest trader in the Strand, who dealt largely in cotton prints, possessed an only daughter; thisyoung lady had a legacy, from a great-aunt, of L3, 220. , with a smallstreet in St. Giles's, where the tenants paid weekly (all thieves orrogues-all, so their rents were sure). Now my grandfather conceived agreat friendship for the father of this young lady; gave him a hint asto a new pattern in spotted cottons; enticed him to take out a patent, and lent him L700. For the speculation; applied for the money at thevery moment cottons were at their worst, and got the daughter instead ofthe money, --by which exchange, you see, he won L2, 520. , to say nothingof the young lady. My grandfather then entered into partnership with theworthy trader, carried on the patent with spirit, and begat two sons. As he grew older, ambition seized him; his sons should be gentlemen--onewas sent to College, the other put into a marching regiment. Mygrandfather meant to die worth a plum; but a fever he caught in visitinghis tenants in St. Giles's prevented him, and he only left L20, 000. Equally divided between the sons. My father, the College man" (hereGawtrey paused a moment, took a large draught of the punch, and resumedwith a visible effort)--"my father, the College man, was a person ofrigid principles--bore an excellent character--had a great regard forthe world. He married early and respectably. I am the sole fruit ofthat union; he lived soberly, his temper was harsh and morose, his homegloomy; he was a very severe father, and my mother died before I wasten years old. When I was fourteen, a little old Frenchman came tolodge with us; he had been persecuted under the old regime for being aphilosopher; he filled my head with odd crotchets which, more or less, have stuck there ever since. At eighteen I was sent to St. John'sCollege, Cambridge. My father was rich enough to have let me go up inthe higher rank of a pensioner, but he had lately grown avaricious; hethought that I was extravagant; he made me a sizar, perhaps to spite me. Then, for the first time, those inequalities in life which the Frenchmanhad dinned into my ears met me practically. A sizar! another name for adog! I had such strength, health, and spirits, that I had more lifein my little finger than half the fellow-commoners--genteel, spindle-shanked striplings, who might have passed for a collection ofmy grandfather's walking-canes--bad in their whole bodies. And I oftenthink, " continued Gawtrey, "that health and spirits have a great dealto answer for! When we are young we so far resemble savages who areNature's young people--that we attach prodigious value to physicaladvantages. My feats of strength and activity--the clods I thrashed--andthe railings I leaped--and the boat-races I won--are they not writtenin the chronicle of St. John's? These achievements inspired me with anextravagant sense of my own superiority; I could not but despise therich fellows whom I could have blown down with a sneeze. Nevertheless, there was an impassable barrier between me and them--a sizar was not aproper associate for the favourites of fortune! But there was one youngman, a year younger myself, of high birth, and the heir to considerablewealth, who did not regard me with the same supercilious insolence asthe rest; his very rank, perhaps, made him indifferent to the littleconventional formalities which influence persons who cannot play atfootball with this round world; he was the wildest youngster in theuniversity--lamp-breaker--tandem-driver--mob-fighter--a very devil inshort--clever, but not in the reading line--small and slight, but braveas a lion. Congenial habits made us intimate, and I loved him like abrother--better than a brother--as a dog loves his master. In all ourrows I covered him with my body. He had but to say to me, 'Leap into thewater, ' and I would not have stopped to pull off my coat. In short, I loved him as a proud man loves one who stands betwixt him andcontempt, --as an affectionate man loves one who stands between himand solitude. To cut short a long story: my friend, one dark night, committed an outrage against discipline, of the most unpardonablecharacter. There was a sanctimonious, grave old fellow of the College, crawling home from a tea-party; my friend and another of his set seized, blindfolded, and handcuffed this poor wretch, carried him, vi et armis, back to the house of an old maid whom he had been courting for the lastten years, fastened his pigtail (he wore a long one) to the knocker, andso left him. You may imagine the infernal hubbub which his attemptsto extricate himself caused in the whole street; the old maid's oldmaidservant, after emptying on his head all the vessels of wrath shecould lay her hand to, screamed, 'Rape and murder!' The proctor andhis bull-dogs came up, released the prisoner, and gave chase to thedelinquents, who had incautiously remained near to enjoy the sport. Thenight was dark and they reached the College in safety, but they had beentracked to the gates. For this offence I was expelled. "

"Why, you were not concerned in it?" said Philip. 

"No; but I was suspected and accused. I could have got off by betrayingthe true culprits, but my friend's father was in public life--a stern, haughty old statesman; my friend was mortally afraid of him--the onlyperson he was afraid of. If I had too much insisted on my innocence, Imight have set inquiry on the right track. In fine, I was happy to provemy friendship for him. He shook me most tenderly by the hand on parting, and promised never to forget my generous devotion. I went home indisgrace: I need not tell you what my father said to me: I do not thinkhe ever loved me from that hour. Shortly after this my uncle, GeorgeGawtrey, the captain, returned from abroad; he took a great fancy to me, and I left my father's house (which had grown insufferable) to livewith him. He had been a very handsome man--a gay spendthrift; he hadgot through his fortune, and now lived on his wits--he was a professedgambler. His easy temper, his lively humour, fascinated me; he knewthe world well; and, like all gamblers, was generous when the dice werelucky, --which, to tell you the truth, they generally were, with a manwho had no scruples. Though his practices were a little suspected, they had never been discovered. We lived in an elegant apartment, mixedfamiliarly with men of various ranks, and enjoyed life extremely. Ibrushed off my college rust, and conceived a taste for expense: I knewnot why it was, but in my new existence every one was kind to me; andI had spirits that made me welcome everywhere. I was a scamp--but afrolicsome scamp--and that is always a popular character. As yet Iwas not dishonest, but saw dishonesty round me, and it seemed a verypleasant, jolly mode of making money; and now I again fell into contactwith the young heir. My college friend was as wild in London as he hadbeen at Cambridge; but the boy-ruffian, though not then twenty years ofage, had grown into the man-villain. "

Here Gawtrey paused, and frowned darkly. 

"He had great natural parts, this young man-much wit, readiness, andcunning, and he became very intimate with my uncle. He learned of himhow to play the dice, and a pack the cards--he paid him L1, 000. For theknowledge!"

"How! a cheat? You said he was rich. "

"His father was very rich, and he had a liberal allowance, but he wasvery extravagant; and rich men love gain as well as poor men do! He hadno excuse but the grand excuse of all vice--SELFISHNESS. Young as he washe became the fashion, and he fattened upon the plunder of his equals, who desired the honour of his acquaintance. Now, I had seen my unclecheat, but I had never imitated his example; when the man of fashioncheated, and made a jest of his earnings and my scruples--when I sawhim courted, flattered, honoured, and his acts unsuspected, because hisconnections embraced half the peerage, the temptation grew strong, butI still resisted it. However, my father always said I was born to be agood-for-nothing, and I could not escape my destiny. And now I suddenlyfell in love--you don't know what that is yet--so much the better foryou. The girl was beautiful, and I thought she loved me--perhaps shedid--but I was too poor, so her friends said, for marriage. We courted, as the saying is, in the meanwhile. It was my love for her, my wish todeserve her, that made me iron against my friend's example. I was foolenough to speak to him of Mary--to present him to her--this ended in herseduction. " (Again Gawtrey paused, and breathed hard. ) "I discovered thetreachery--I called out the seducer-he sneered, and refused to fight thelow-born adventurer. I struck him to the earth--and then we fought. Iwas satisfied by a ball through my side! but he, " added Gawtrey, rubbinghis hands, and with a vindictive chuckle, --"He was a cripple for life!When I recovered I found that my foe, whose sick-chamber was crowdedwith friends and comforters, had taken advantage of my illness toruin my reputation. He, the swindler, accused me of his own crime:the equivocal character of my uncle confirmed the charge. Him, his ownhigh-born pupil was enabled to unmask, and his disgrace was visited onme. I left my bed to find my uncle (all disguise over) an avowed partnerin a hell, and myself blasted alike in name, love, past, and future. And then, Philip--then I commenced that career which I have troddensince--the prince of good-fellows and good-for-nothings, with tenthousand aliases, and as many strings to my bow. Society cast me offwhen I was innocent. Egad, I have had my revenge on society since!--Ho!ho! ho!"

The laugh of this man had in it a moral infection. There was a sort ofglorying in its deep tone; it was not the hollow hysteric of shame anddespair--it spoke a sanguine joyousness! William Gawtrey was a man whoseanimal constitution had led him to take animal pleasure in all things:he had enjoyed the poisons he had lived on. 

"But your father--surely your father--"

"My father, " interrupted Gawtrey, "refused me the money (but a smallsum) that, once struck with the strong impulse of a sincere penitence, I begged of him, to enable me to get an honest living in a humble trade. His refusal soured the penitence--it gave me an excuse for my career andconscience grapples to an excuse as a drowning wretch to a straw. Andyet this hard father--this cautious, moral, money-loving man, threemonths afterwards, suffered a rogue--almost a stranger--to decoyhim into a speculation that promised to bring him fifty per cent. Heinvested in the traffic of usury what had sufficed to save a hundredsuch as I am from perdition, and he lost it all. It was nearly his wholefortune; but he lives and has his luxuries still: he cannot speculate, but he can save: he cared not if I starved, for he finds an hourlyhappiness in starving himself. "

"And your friend, " said Philip, after a pause in which his youngsympathies went dangerously with the excuses for his benefactor; "whathas become of him, and the poor girl?"

"My friend became a great man; he succeeded to his father's peerage--avery ancient one--and to a splendid income. He is living still. Well, you shall hear about the poor girl! We are told of victims of seductiondying in a workhouse or on a dunghill, penitent, broken-hearted, anduncommonly ragged and sentimental. It may be a frequent case, but it isnot the worst. It is worse, I think, when the fair, penitent, innocent, credulous dupe becomes in her turn the deceiver--when she catches vicefrom the breath upon which she has hung--when she ripens, and mellows, and rots away into painted, blazing, staring, wholesale harlotry--when, in her turn, she ruins warm youth with false smiles and long bills--andwhen worse--worse than all--when she has children, daughters perhaps, brought up to the same trade, cooped, plumper, for some hoary lecher, without a heart in their bosoms, unless a balance for weighing money maybe called a heart. Mary became this; and I wish to Heaven she had ratherdied in an hospital! Her lover polluted her soul as well as her beauty:he found her another lover when he was tired of her. When she was at theage of thirty-six I met her in Paris, with a daughter of sixteen. I wasthen flush with money, frequenting salons, and playing the part ofa fine gentleman. She did not know me at first; and she sought myacquaintance. For you must know, my young friend, " said Gawtrey, abruptly breaking off the thread of his narrative, "that I am notaltogether the low dog you might suppose in seeing me here. AtParis--ah! you don't know Paris--there is a glorious ferment in societyin which the dregs are often uppermost! I came here at the Peace, andhere have I resided the greater part of each year ever since. The vastmasses of energy and life, broken up by the great thaw of the Imperialsystem, floating along the tide, are terrible icebergs for the vesselof the state. Some think Napoleonism over--its effects are only begun. Society is shattered from one end to the other, and I laugh at thelittle rivets by which they think to keep it together. 

 [This passage was written at a period when the dynasty of Louis Philippe seemed the most assured, and Napoleonism was indeed considered extinct. ]

"But to return. Paris, I say, is the atmosphere for adventurers--newfaces and new men are so common here that they excite no impertinentinquiry, it is so usual to see fortunes made in a day and spent in amonth; except in certain circles, there is no walking round a man'scharacter to spy out where it wants piercing! Some lean Greek poetput lead in his pockets to prevent being blown away;--put gold in yourpockets, and at Paris you may defy the sharpest wind in the world, --yea, even the breath of that old AEolus--Scandal! Well, then, I had money--nomatter how I came by it--and health, and gaiety; and I was well receivedin the coteries that exist in all capitals, but mostly in France, wherepleasure is the cement that joins many discordant atoms. Here, I say, I met Mary and her daughter, by my old friend--the daughter, stillinnocent, but, sacra! in what an element of vice! We knew each other'ssecrets, Mary and I, and kept them: she thought me a greater knave thanI was, and she intrusted to me her intention of selling her child to arich English marquis. On the other hand, the poor girl confided to meher horror of the scenes she witnessed and the snares that surroundedher. What do you think preserved her pure from all danger? Bah! you willnever guess! It was partly because, if example corrupts, it as oftendeters, but principally because she loved. A girl who loves oneman purely has about her an amulet which defies the advances ofthe profligate. There was a handsome young Italian, an artist, whofrequented the house--he was the man. I had to choose, then, betweenmother and daughter: I chose the last. "

Philip seized hold of Gawtrey's hand, grasped it warmly, and thegood-for-nothing continued--

"Do you know, that I loved that girl as well as I had ever loved themother, though in another way; she was what I fancied the mother to be;still more fair, more graceful, more winning, with a heart as full oflove as her mother's had been of vanity. I loved that child as if shehad been my own daughter. I induced her to leave her mother's house--Isecreted her--I saw her married to the man she loved--I gave her away, and saw no more of her for several months. "

"Why?"

"Because I spent them in prison! The young people could not live uponair; I gave them what I had, and in order to do more I did somethingwhich displeased the police; I narrowly escaped that time; but Iam popular--very popular, and with plenty of witnesses, notover-scrupulous, I got off! When I was released, I would not go to seethem, for my clothes were ragged: the police still watched me, and Iwould not do them harm in the world! Ay, poor wretches! they struggledso hard: he could got very little by his art, though, I believe, he wasa cleverish fellow at it, and the money I had given them could not lastfor ever. They lived near the Champs Elysees, and at night I used tosteal out and look at them through the window. They seemed so happy, andso handsome, and so good; but he looked sickly, and I saw that, like allItalians, he languished for his own warm climate. But man is born to actas well as to contemplate, " pursued Gawtrey, changing his tone intothe allegro; "and I was soon driven into my old ways, though in a lowerline. I went to London, just to give my reputation an airing, and when Ireturned, pretty flush again, the poor Italian was dead, and Fanny was awidow, with one boy, and enceinte with a second child. So then I soughther again, for her mother had found her out, and was at her with herdevilish kindness; but Heaven was merciful, and took her away fromboth of us: she died in giving birth to a girl, and her last wordswere uttered to me, imploring me--the adventurer--the charlatan--thegood-for-nothing--to keep her child from the clutches of her own mother. Well, sir, I did what I could for both the children; but the boy wasconsumptive, like his father, and sleeps at Pere-la-Chaise. The girl ishere--you shall see her some day. Poor Fanny! if ever the devil willlet me, I shall reform for her sake. Meanwhile, for her sake I must getgrist for the mill. My story is concluded, for I need not tell you allof my pranks--of all the parts I have played in life. I have never beena murderer, or a burglar, or a highway robber, or what the law calls athief. I can only say, as I said before, I have lived upon my wits, andthey have been a tolerable capital on the whole. I have been an actor, a money-lender, a physician, a professor of animal magnetism (that waslucrative till it went out of fashion, perhaps it will come in again); Ihave been a lawyer, a house-agent, a dealer in curiosities and china; Ihave kept a hotel; I have set up a weekly newspaper; I have seen almostevery city in Europe, and made acquaintance with some of its gaols; buta man who has plenty of brains generally falls on his legs. "

"And your father?" said Philip; and here he spoke to Gawtrey of theconversation he had overheard in the churchyard, but on which a scrupleof natural delicacy had hitherto kept him silent. 

"Well, now, " said his host, while a slight blush rose to his cheeks, "I will tell you, that though to my father's sternness and avarice Iattribute many of my faults, I yet always had a sort of love for him;and when in London I accidentally heard that he was growing blind, andliving with an artful old jade of a housekeeper, who might send him torest with a dose of magnesia the night after she had coaxed him to makea will in her favour. I sought him out--and--but you say you heard whatpassed. "

"Yes; and I heard him also call you by name, when it was too late, and Isaw the tears on his cheeks. "

"Did you? Will you swear to that?" exclaimed Gawtrey, with vehemence:then, shading his brow with his band, he fell into a reverie that lastedsome moments. 

"If anything happen to me, Philip, " he said, abruptly, "perhaps he mayyet be a father to poor Fanny; and if he takes to her, she will repayhim for whatever pain I may, perhaps, have cost him. Stop! now I thinkof it, I will write down his address for you--never forget it--there! Itis time to go to bed. "

Gawtrey's tale made a deep impression on Philip. He was too young, tooinexperienced, too much borne away by the passion of the narrator, tosee that Gawtrey had less cause to blame Fate than himself. True, he hadbeen unjustly implicated in the disgrace of an unworthy uncle, but hehad lived with that uncle, though he knew him to be a common cheat;true, he had been betrayed by a friend, but he had before known thatfriend to be a man without principle or honour. But what wonder that anardent boy saw nothing of this--saw only the good heart that had saveda poor girl from vice, and sighed to relieve a harsh and avariciousparent? Even the hints that Gawtrey unawares let fall of practicesscarcely covered by the jovial phrase of "a great schoolboy's scrapes, "either escaped the notice of Philip, or were charitably construed byhim, in the compassion and the ignorance of a young, hasty, and gratefulheart. 

CHAPTER IV. 

 "And she's a stranger Women--beware women. "--MIDDLETON. 

 "As we love our youngest children best, So the last fruit of our affection, Wherever we bestow it, is most strong; Since 'tis indeed our latest harvest-home, Last merriment 'fore winter!" WEBSTER, Devil's Law Case. 

 "I would fain know what kind of thing a man's heart is? I will report it to you; 'tis a thing framed With divers corners!"--ROWLEY. 

I have said that Gawtrey's tale made a deep impression on Philip;--thatimpression was increased by subsequent conversations, more frank eventhan their talk had hitherto been. There was certainly about this mana fatal charm which concealed his vices. It arose, perhaps, from theperfect combinations of his physical frame--from a health which madehis spirits buoyant and hearty under all circumstances--and a bloodso fresh, so sanguine, that it could not fail to keep the pores of theheart open. But he was not the less--for all his kindly impulses andgenerous feelings, and despite the manner in which, naturally anxious tomake the least unfavourable portrait of himself to Philip, he softenedand glossed over the practices of his life--a thorough and completerogue, a dangerous, desperate, reckless daredevil. It was easy to seewhen anything crossed him, by the cloud on his shaggy brow, by theswelling of the veins on the forehead, by the dilation of the broadnostril, that he was one to cut his way through every obstacle to anend, --choleric, impetuous, fierce, determined. Such, indeed, were thequalities that made him respected among his associates, as hismore bland and humorous ones made him beloved. He was, in fact, theincarnation of that great spirit which the laws of the world raise upagainst the world, and by which the world's injustice on a large scaleis awfully chastised; on a small scale, merely nibbled at and harassed, as the rat that gnaws the hoof of the elephant:--the spirit which, on avast theatre, rises up, gigantic and sublime, in the heroes of war andrevolution--in Mirabeaus, Marats, Napoleons: on a minor stage, it showsitself in demagogues, fanatical philosophers, and mob-writers; and onthe forbidden boards, before whose reeking lamps outcasts sit, at onceaudience and actors, it never produced a knave more consummate inhis part, or carrying it off with more buskined dignity, thanWilliam Gawtrey. I call him by his aboriginal name; as for his otherappellations, Bacchus himself had not so many!

One day, a lady, richly dressed, was ushered by Mr. Birnie into thebureau of Mr. Love, alias Gawtrey. Philip was seated by the window, reading, for the first time, the Candide, --that work, next to Rasselas, the most hopeless and gloomy of the sports of genius with mankind. The lady seemed rather embarrassed when she perceived Mr. Love was notalone. She drew back, and, drawing her veil still more closely roundher, said, in French:

"Pardon me, I would wish a private conversation. " Philip rose towithdraw, when the lady, observing him with eyes whose lustre shonethrough the veil, said gently: "But perhaps the young gentleman isdiscreet. "

"He is not discreet, he is discretion!--my adopted son. You may confidein him--upon my honour you may, madam!" and Mr. Love placed his hand onhis heart. 

"He is very young, " said the lady, in a tone of involuntary compassion, as, with a very white hand, she unclasped the buckle of her cloak. 

"He can the better understand the curse of celibacy, " returned Mr. Love, smiling. 

The lady lifted part of her veil, and discovered a handsome mouth, and aset of small, white teeth; for she, too, smiled, though gravely, as sheturned to Morton, and said--

"You seem, sir, more fitted to be a votary of the temple than one of itsofficers. However, Monsieur Love, let there be no mistake between us;I do not come here to form a marriage, but to prevent one. I understandthat Monsieur the Vicomte de Vaudemont has called into request yourservices. I am one of the Vicomte's family; we are all anxious thathe should not contract an engagement of the strange and, pardon me, unbecoming character, which must stamp a union formed at a publicoffice. "

"I assure you, madam, " said Mr. Love, with dignity, "that we havecontributed to the very first--"

"Mon Dieu!" interrupted the lady, with much impatience, "spare me aeulogy on your establishment: I have no doubt it is very respectable;and for grisettes and epiciers may do extremely well. But the Vicomteis a man of birth and connections. In a word, what he contemplatesis preposterous. I know not what fee Monsieur Love expects; but ifhe contrive to amuse Monsieur de Vaudemont, and to frustrate everyconnection he proposes to form, that fee, whatever it may be, shall bedoubled. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly, madam; yet it is not your offer that will bias me, but thedesire to oblige so charming a lady. "

"It is agreed, then?" said the lady, carelessly; and as she spoke sheagain glanced at Philip. 

"If madame will call again, I will inform her of my plans, " said Mr. Love. 

"Yes, I will call again. Good morning!" As she rose and passed Philip, she wholly put aside her veil, and looked at him with a gaze entirelyfree from coquetry, but curious, searching, and perhaps admiring--thelook that an artist may give to a picture that seines of more value thanthe place where he finds it would seem to indicate. The countenance ofthe lady herself was fair and noble, and Philip felt a strange thrillat his heart as, with a slight inclination of her' head, she turned fromthe room. 

"Ah!" said Gawtrey, laughing, "this is not the first time I have beenpaid by relations to break off the marriages I had formed. Egad! if onecould open a bureau to make married people single, one would soon bea Croesus! Well, then, this decides me to complete the union betweenMonsieur Goupille and Mademoiselle de Courval. I had balanced a littlehitherto between the epicier and the Vicomte. Now I will concludematters. Do you know, Phil, I think you have made a conquest?"

"Pooh!" said Philip, colouring. 

In effect, that very evening Mr. Love saw both the epicier and Adele, and fixed the marriage-day. As Monsieur Goupille was a person of greatdistinction in the Faubourg, this wedding was one upon which Mr. Lovecongratulated himself greatly; and he cheerfully accepted an invitationfor himself and his partners to honour the noces with their presence. 

A night or two before the day fixed for the marriage of MonsieurGoupille and the aristocratic Adele, when Mr. Birnie had retired, Gawtrey made his usual preparations for enjoying himself. But this timethe cigar and the punch seemed to fail of their effect. Gawtrey remainedmoody and silent; and Morton was thinking of the bright eyes of thelady who was so much interested against the amours of the Vicomte deVaudemont. 

At last, Gawtrey broke silence:

"My young friend, " said he, "I told you of my little protege; I havebeen buying toys for her this morning; she is a beautiful creature;to-morrow is her birthday--she will then be six years old. But--but--"here Gawtrey sighed--"I fear she is not all right here, " and he touchedhis forehead. 

"I should like much to see her, " said Philip, not noticing the latterremark. 

"And you shall--you shall come with me to-morrow. Heigho! I should notlike to die, for her sake!"

"Does her wretched relation attempt to regain her?"

"Her relation! No; she is no more--she died about two years since! PoorMary! I--well, this is folly. But Fanny is at present in a convent; theyare all kind to her, but then I pay well; if I were dead, and the paystopped, --again I ask, what would become of her, unless, as I beforesaid, my father--"

"But you are making a fortune now?"

"If this lasts--yes; but I live in fear--the police of this cursed cityare lynx-eyed; however, that is the bright side of the question. "

"Why not have the child with you, since you love her so much? She wouldbe a great comfort to you. "

"Is this a place for a child--a girl?" said Gawtrey, stamping his footimpatiently. "I should go mad if I saw that villainous deadman's eyebent upon her!"

"You speak of Birnie. How can you endure him?"

"When you are my age you will know why we endure what we dread--whywe make friends of those who else would be most horrible foes: no, no--nothing can deliver me of this man but Death. And--and--" addedGawtrey, turning pale, "I cannot murder a man who eats my bread. There are stronger ties, my lad, than affection, that bind men, likegalley-slaves, together. He who can hang you puts the halter round yourneck and leads you by it like a dog. "

A shudder came over the young listener. And what dark secrets, knownonly to those two, had bound, to a man seemingly his subordinate andtool, the strong will and resolute temper of William Gawtrey?

"But, begone, dull care!" exclaimed Gawtrey, rousing himself. "And, after all, Birnie is a useful fellow, and dare no more turn against methan I against him! Why don't you drink more?

 "Oh! have you e'er heard of the famed Captain Wattle?"

and Gawtrey broke out into a loud Bacchanalian hymn, in which Philipcould find no mirth, and from which the songster suddenly paused toexclaim:--

"Mind you say nothing about Fanny to Birnie; my secrets with him are notof that nature. He could not hurt her, poor lamb! it is true--at least, as far as I can foresee. But one can never feel too sure of one's lamb, if one once introduces it to the butcher!"

The next day being Sunday, the bureau was closed, and Philip andGawtrey repaired to the convent. It was a dismal-looking place as tothe exterior; but, within, there was a large garden, well kept, and, notwithstanding the winter, it seemed fair and refreshing, compared withthe polluted streets. The window of the room into which they were shownlooked upon the green sward, with walls covered with ivy at the fartherend. And Philip's own childhood came back to him as he gazed on thequiet of the lonely place. 

The door opened--an infant voice was heard, a voice of glee-of rapture;and a child, light and beautiful as a fairy, bounded to Gawtrey'sbreast. 

Nestling there, she kissed his face, his hands, his clothes, with apassion that did not seem to belong to her age, laughing and sobbingalmost at a breath. 

On his part, Gawtrey appeared equally affected: he stroked down her hairwith his huge hand, calling her all manner of pet names, in a tremulousvoice that vainly struggled to be gay. 

At length he took the toys he had brought with him from his capaciouspockets, and strewing them on the floor, fairly stretched his vast bulkalong; while the child tumbled over him, sometimes grasping at the toys, and then again returning to his bosom, and laying her head there, lookedup quietly into his eyes, as if the joy were too much for her. 

Morton, unheeded by both, stood by with folded arms. He thought of hislost and ungrateful brother, and muttered to himself:

"Fool! when she is older, she will forsake him!"

Fanny betrayed in her face the Italian origin of her father. She hadthat exceeding richness of complexion which, though not common evenin Italy, is only to be found in the daughters of that land, and whichharmonised well with the purple lustre of her hair, and the full, cleariris of the dark eyes. Never were parted cherries brighter than herdewy lips; and the colour of the open neck and the rounded arms was ofa whiteness still more dazzling, from the darkness of the hair and thecarnation of the glowing cheek. 

Suddenly Fanny started from Gawtrey's arms, and running up to Morton, gazed at him wistfully, and said, in French:

"Who are you? Do you come from the moon? I think you do. " Then, stoppingabruptly, she broke into a verse of a nursery-song, which she chauntedwith a low, listless tone, as if she were not conscious of the sense. Asshe thus sang, Morton, looking at her, felt a strange and painful doubtseize him. The child's eyes, though soft, were so vacant in their gaze. 

"And why do I come from the moon?" said he. 

"Because you look sad and cross. I don't like you--I don't like themoon; it gives me a pain here!" and she put her hand to her temples. "Have you got anything for Fanny--poor, poor Fanny?" and, dwelling onthe epithet, she shook her head mournfully. 

"You are rich, Fanny, with all those toys. "

"Am I? Everybody calls me poor Fanny--everybody but papa;" and she ranagain to Gawtrey, and laid her head on his shoulder. 

"She calls me papa!" said Gawtrey, kissing her; "you hear it? Blessher!"

"And you never kiss any one but Fanny--you have no other little girl?"said the child, earnestly, and with a look less vacant than that whichhad saddened Morton. 

"No other--no--nothing under heaven, and perhaps above it, but you!" andhe clasped her in his arms. "But, " he added, after a pause--"but mindme, Fanny, you must like this gentleman. He will be always good to you:and he had a little brother whom he was as fond of as I am of you. "

"No, I won't like him--I won't like anybody but you and my sister!"

"Sister!--who is your sister?"

The child's face relapsed into an expression almost of idiotcy. "I don'tknow--I never saw her. I hear her sometimes, but I don't understandwhat she says. --Hush! come here!" and she stole to the window on tiptoe. Gawtrey followed and looked out. 

"Do you hear her, now?" said Fanny. "What does she say?"

As the girl spoke, some bird among the evergreens uttered a shrill, plaintive cry, rather than song--a sound which the thrush occasionallymakes in the winter, and which seems to express something of fear, andpain, and impatience. "What does she say?--can you tell me?" asked thechild. 

"Pooh! that is a bird; why do you call it your sister?"

"I don't know!--because it is--because it--because--I don't know--is itnot in pain?--do something for it, papa!"

Gawtrey glanced at Morton, whose face betokened his deep pity, andcreeping up to him, whispered, --

"Do you think she is really touched here? No, no, --she will outgrowit--I am sure she will!"

Morton sighed. 

Fanny by this time had again seated herself in the middle of the floor, and arranged her toys, but without seeming to take pleasure in them. 

At last Gawtrey was obliged to depart. The lay sister, who had chargeof Fanny, was summoned into the parlour; and then the child's mannerentirely changed; her face grew purple--she sobbed with as much anger asgrief. "She would not leave papa--she would not go--that she would not!"

"It is always so, " whispered Gawtrey to Morton, in an abashed andapologetic voice. "It is so difficult to get away from her. Just go andtalk with her while I steal out. "

Morton went to her, as she struggled with the patient good-naturedsister, and began to soothe and caress her, till she turned on him herlarge humid eyes, and said, mournfully, "Tu es mechant, tu. Poor Fanny!"

"But this pretty doll--" began the sister. The child looked at itjoylessly. 

"And papa is going to die!"

"Whenever Monsieur goes, " whispered the nun, "she always says that heis dead, and cries herself quietly to sleep; when Monsieur returns, shesays he is come to life again. Some one, I suppose, once talked to herabout death; and she thinks when she loses sight of any one, that thatis death. "

"Poor child!" said Morton, with a trembling voice. 

The child looked up, smiled, stroked his cheek with her little hand, andsaid:

"Thank you!--Yes! poor Fanny! Ah, he is going--see!--let me go too--tues mechant. "

"But, " said Morton, detaining her gently, "do you know that you givehim pain?--you make him cry by showing pain yourself. Don't make him sosad!"

The child seemed struck, hung down her head for a moment, as if inthought, and then, jumping from Morton's lap, ran to Gawtrey, put up herpouting lips, and said:

"One kiss more!"

Gawtrey kissed her, and turned away his head. 

"Fanny is a good girl!" and Fanny, as she spoke, went back to Morton, and put her little fingers into her eyes, as if either to shut outGawtrey's retreat from her sight, or to press back her tears. 

"Give me the doll now, sister Marie. "

Morton smiled and sighed, placed the child, who struggled no more, inthe nun's arms, and left the room; but as he closed the door he lookedback, and saw that Fanny had escaped from the sister, thrown herself onthe floor, and was crying, but not loud. 

"Is she not a little darling?" said Gawtrey, as they gained the street. 

"She is, indeed, a most beautiful child!"

"And you will love her if I leave her penniless, " said Gawtrey, abruptly. "It was your love for your mother and your brother that mademe like you from the first. Ay, " continued Gawtrey, in a tone of greatearnestness, "ay, and whatever may happen to me, I will strive and keepyou, my poor lad, harmless; and what is better, innocent even of suchmatters as sit light enough on my own well-seasoned conscience. In turn, if ever you have the power, be good to her, --yes, be good to her! and Iwon't say a harsh word to you if ever you like to turn king's evidenceagainst myself. "

"Gawtrey!" said Morton, reproachfully, and almost fiercely. 

"Bah!--such things are! But tell me honestly, do you think she is verystrange--very deficient?"

"I have not seen enough of her to judge, " answered Morton, evasively. 

"She is so changeful, " persisted Gawtrey. "Sometimes you would saythat she was above her age, she comes out with such thoughtful, cleverthings; then, the next moment, she throws me into despair. These nunsare very skilful in education--at least they are said to be so. Thedoctors give me hope, too. You see, her poor mother was very unhappyat the time of her birth--delirious, indeed: that may account for it. Ioften fancy that it is the constant excitement which her state occasionsme that makes me love her so much. You see she is one who can nevershift for herself. I must get money for her; I have left a littlealready with the superior, and I would not touch it to save myself fromfamine! If she has money people will be kind enough to her. And then, "continued Gawtrey, "you must perceive that she loves nothing in theworld but me--me, whom nobody else loves! Well--well, now to the shopagain!"

On returning home the bonne informed them that a lady had called, andasked both for Monsieur Love and the young gentleman, and seemed muchchagrined at missing both. By the description, Morton guessed she wasthe fair incognita, and felt disappointed at having lost the interview. 

CHAPTER V. 

 "The cursed carle was at his wonted trade, Still tempting heedless men into his snare, In witching wise, as I before have said; But when he saw, in goodly gear array'd, The grave majestic knight approaching nigh, His countenance fell. "--THOMSON, Castle of Indolence. 

The morning rose that was to unite Monsieur Goupille with MademoiselleAdele de Courval. The ceremony was performed, and bride and bridegroomwent through that trying ordeal with becoming gravity. Only the elegantAdele seemed more unaffectedly agitated than Mr. Love could well accountfor; she was very nervous in church, and more often turned her eyes tothe door than to the altar. Perhaps she wanted to run away; but it waseither too late or too early for the proceeding. The rite performed, the happy pair and their friends adjourned to the Cadran Bleu, thatrestaurant so celebrated in the festivities of the good citizens ofParis. Here Mr. Love had ordered, at the epicier's expense, a mosttasteful entertainment. 

"Sacre! but you have not played the economist, Monsieur Lofe, " saidMonsieur Goupille, rather querulously, as he glanced at the long roomadorned with artificial flowers, and the table a cingitante couverts. 

"Bah!" replied Mr. Love, "you can retrench afterwards. Think of thefortune she brought you. "

"It is a pretty sum, certainly, " said Monsieur Goupille, "and the notaryis perfectly satisfied. "

"There is not a marriage in Paris that does me more credit, " said Mr. Love; and he marched off to receive the compliments and congratulationsthat awaited him among such of the guests as were aware of his goodoffices. The Vicomte de Vaudemont was of course not present. He hadnot been near Mr. Love since Adele had accepted the epicier. But MadameBeavor, in a white bonnet lined with lilac, was hanging, sentimentally, on the arm of the Pole, who looked very grand with his white favour; andMr. Higgins had been introduced, by Mr. Love, to a little dark Creole, who wore paste diamonds, and had very languishing eyes; so that Mr. Love's heart might well swell with satisfaction at the prospect ofthe various blisses to come, which might owe their origin to hisbenevolence. In fact, that archpriest of the Temple of Hymen was nevermore great than he was that day; never did his establishment seem moresolid, his reputation more popular, or his fortune more sure. He was thelife of the party. 

The banquet over, the revellers prepared for a dance. Monsieur Goupille, in tights, still tighter than he usually wore, and of a rich nankeen, quite new, with striped silk stockings, opened the ball with the lady ofa rich patissier in the same Faubourg; Mr. Love took out the bride. Theevening advanced; and after several other dances of ceremony, MonsieurGoupille conceived himself entitled to dedicate one to connubialaffection. A country-dance was called, and the epicier claimed the fairhand of the gentle Adele. About this time, two persons not hithertoperceived had quietly entered the room, and, standing near the doorway, seemed examining the dancers, as if in search for some one. They bobbedtheir heads up and down, to and fro stopped--now stood on tiptoe. Theone was a tall, large-whiskered, fair-haired man; the other, a little, thin, neatly-dressed person, who kept his hand on the arm of hiscompanion, and whispered to him from time to time. The whiskeredgentleman replied in a guttural tone, which proclaimed his origin to beGerman. The busy dancers did not perceive the strangers. The bystandersdid, and a hum of curiosity circled round; who could they be?--who hadinvited them?--they were new faces in the Faubourg--perhaps relations toAdele?

In high delight the fair bride was skipping down the middle, whileMonsieur Goupille, wiping his forehead with care, admired her agility;when, to and behold! the whiskered gentleman I have described abruptlyadvanced from his companion, and cried:

"La voila!--sacre tonnerre!"

At that voice--at that apparition, the bride halted; so suddenly indeed, that she had not time to put down both feet, but remained with one highin the air, while the other sustained itself on the light fantastic toe. The company naturally imagined this to be an operatic flourish, whichcalled for approbation. Monsieur Love, who was thundering down behindher, cried, "Bravo!" and as the well-grown gentleman had to make a sweepto avoid disturbing her equilibrium, he came full against the whiskeredstranger, and sent him off as a bat sends a ball. 

"Mon Dieu!" cried Monsieur Goupille. "Ma douce amie--she has faintedaway!" And, indeed, Adele had no sooner recovered her, balance, thanshe resigned it once more into the arms of the startled Pole, who washappily at hand. 

In the meantime, the German stranger, who had saved himself from fallingby coming with his full force upon the toes of Mr. Higgins, againadvanced to the spot, and, rudely seizing the fair bride by the arm, exclaimed, --

"No sham if you please, madame--speak! What the devil have you done withthe money?"

"Really, sir, " said Monsieur Goupille, drawing tip his cravat, "thisis very extraordinary conduct! What have you got to say to this lady'smoney?--it is my money now, sir!"

"Oho! it is, is it? We'll soon see that. Approchez donc, MonsieurFavart, faites votre devoir. "

At these words the small companion of the stranger slowly sauntered tothe spot, while at the sound of his name and the tread of his step, thethrong gave way to the right and left. For Monsieur Favart was one ofthe most renowned chiefs of the great Parisian police--a man worthy tobe the contemporary of the illustrious Vidocq. 

"Calmez vous, messieurs; do not be alarmed, ladies, " said thisgentleman, in the mildest of all human voices; and certainly no oildropped on the waters ever produced so tranquillising an effect as thatsmall, feeble, gentle tenor. The Pole, in especial, who was holding thefair bride with both his arms, shook all over, and seemed about to lethis burden gradually slide to the floor, when Monsieur Favart, lookingat him with a benevolent smile, said--

"Aha, mon brave! c'est toi. Restez donc. Restez, tenant toujours ladame!"

The Pole, thus condemned, in the French idiom, "always to hold thedame, " mechanically raised the arms he had previously dejected, and thepolice officer, with an approving nod of the head, said, --

"Bon! ne bougez point, --c'est ca!"

Monsieur Goupille, in equal surprise and indignation to see his betterhalf thus consigned, without any care to his own marital feelings, to the arms of another, was about to snatch her from the Pole, whenMonsieur Favart, touching him on the breast with his little finger, said, in the suavest manner, --

"Mon bourgeois, meddle not with what does not concern you!"

"With what does not concern me!" repeated Monsieur Goupille, drawinghimself up to so great a stretch that he seemed pulling off his tightsthe wrong way. "Explain yourself, if you please! This lady is my wife!"

"Say that again, --that's all!" cried the whiskered stranger, in mosthorrible French, and with a furious grimace, as he shook both his fistsjust under the nose of the epicier. 

"Say it again, sir, " said Monsieur Goupille, by no means daunted; "andwhy should not I say it again? That lady is my wife!"

"You lie!--she is mine!" cried the German; and bending down, he caughtthe fair Adele from the Pole with as little ceremony as if she had neverhad a great-grandfather a marquis, and giving her a shake that mighthave roused the dead, thundered out, --

"Speak! Madame Bihl! Are you my wife or not?"

"Monstre!" murmured Adele, opening her eyes. 

"There--you hear--she owns me!" said the German, appealing to thecompany with a triumphant air. 

"C'est vrai!" said the soft voice of the policeman. "And now, pray don'tlet us disturb your amusements any longer. We have a fiacre at the door. Remove your lady, Monsieur Bihl. "

"Monsieur Lofe!--Monsieur Lofe!" cried, or rather screeched the epicier, darting across the room, and seizing the chef by the tail of his coat, just as he was half way through the door, "come back! Quelle mauvaiseplaisanterie me faites-vous ici? Did you not tell me that lady wassingle? Am I married or not: Do I stand on my head or my heels?"

"Hush-hush! mon bon bourgeois!" whispered Mr. Love; "all shall beexplained to-morrow!"

"Who is this gentleman?" asked Monsieur Favart, approaching Mr. Love, who, seeing himself in for it, suddenly jerked off the epicier, thrusthis hands down into his breeches' pockets, buried his chin in hiscravat, elevated his eyebrows, screwed in his eyes, and puffed out hischeeks, so that the astonished Monsieur Goupille really thought himselfbewitched, and literally did not recognise the face of the match-maker. 

"Who is this gentleman?" repeated the little officer, standing beside, or rather below, Mr. Love, and looking so diminutive by the contras thatyou might have fancied that the Priest of Hymen had only to breathe toblow him away. 

"Who should he be, monsieur?" cried, with great pertness, Madame RosalieCaumartin, coming to the relief, with the generosity of her sex. --"Thisis Monsieur Lofe--Anglais celebre. What have you to say against him?"

"He has got five hundred francs of mine!" cried the epicier. 

The policeman scanned Mr. Love, with great attention. "So you are inParis again?--Hein!--vous jouez toujours votre role!

"Ma foi!" said Mr. Love, boldly; "I don't understand what monsieurmeans; my character is well known--go and inquire it in London--askthe Secretary of Foreign Affairs what is said of me--inquire of myAmbassador--demand of my--"

"Votre passeport, monsieur?"

"It is at home. A gentleman does not carry his passport in his pocketwhen he goes to a ball!"

"I will call and see it--au revoir! Take my advice and leave Paris; Ithink I have seen you somewhere!"

"Yet I have never had the honour to marry monsieur!" said Mr. Love, witha polite bow. 

In return for his joke, the policeman gave Mr. Love one look-it was aquiet look, very quiet; but Mr. Love seemed uncommonly affected by it;he did not say another word, but found himself outside the house in atwinkling. Monsieur Favart turned round and saw the Pole making himselfas small as possible behind the goodly proportions of Madame Beavor. 

"What name does that gentleman go by?"

"So--vo--lofski, the heroic Pole, " cried Madame Beavor, with sundrymisgivings at the unexpected cowardice of so great a patriot. 

"Hein! take care of yourselves, ladies. I have nothing against thatperson this time. But Monsieur Latour has served his apprenticeship atthe galleys, and is no more a Pole than I am a Jew. "

"And this lady's fortune!" cried Monsieur Goupitle, pathetically; "thesettlements are all made--the notaries all paid. I am sure there must besome mistake. "

Monsieur Bihl, who had by this time restored his lost Helen to hersenses, stalked up to the epicier, dragging the lady along with him. 

"Sir, there is no mistake! But, when I have got the money, if you liketo have the lady you are welcome to her. "

"Monstre!" again muttered the fair Adele. 

"The long and the short of it, " said Monsieur Favart, "is that MonsieurBihl is a brave garcon, and has been half over the world as a courier. "

"A courier!" exclaimed several voices. 

"Madame was nursery-governess to an English milord. They married, andquarrelled--no harm in that, mes amis; nothing more common. MonsieurBihl is a very faithful fellow; nursed his last master in an illnessthat ended fatally, because he travelled with his doctor. Milord lefthim a handsome legacy--he retired from service, and fell ill, perhapsfrom idleness or beer. Is not that the story, Monsieur Bihl?"

"He was always drunk--the wretch!" sobbed Adele. "That was to drownmy domestic sorrows, " said the German; "and when I was sick in my bed, madame ran off with my money. Thanks to monsieur, I have found both, andI wish you a very good night. "

"Dansez-vous toujours, mes amis, " said the officer, bowing. Andfollowing Adele and her spouse, the little man left the room--wherehe had caused, in chests so broad and limbs so doughty, much the sameconsternation as that which some diminutive ferret occasions in a burrowof rabbits twice his size. 

Morton had outstayed Mr. Love. But he thought it unnecessary to lingerlong after that gentleman's departure; and, in the general hubbub thatensued, he crept out unperceived, and soon arrived at the bureau. He found Mr. Love and Mr. Birnie already engaged in packing up theireffects. 

"Why--when did you leave?" said Morton to Mr. Birnie. 

"I saw the policeman enter. "

"And why the deuce did not you tell us?" said Gawtrey. 

"Every man for himself. Besides, Mr. Love was dancing, " replied Mr. Birnie, with a dull glance of disdain. "Philosophy, " muttered Gawtrey, thrusting his dresscoat into his trunk; then, suddenly changing hisvoice, "Ha! ha! it was a very good joke after all--own I did it well. Ecod! if he had not given me that look, I think I should have turned thetables on him. But those d---d fellows learn of the mad doctors how totame us. Faith, my heart went down to my shoes--yet I'm no coward!"

"But, after all, he evidently did not know you, " said Morton; "andwhat has he to say against you? Your trade is a strange one, but notdishonest. Why give up as if---"

"My young friend, " interrupted Gawtrey, "whether the officer comes afterus or not, our trade is ruined; that infernal Adele, with her fabulousgrandmaman, has done for us. Goupille will blow the temple about ourears. No help for it--eh, Birnie?"

"None. "

"Go to bed, Philip: we'll call thee at daybreak, for we must make clearwork before our neighbours open their shutters. "

Reclined, but half undressed, on his bed in the little cabinet, Mortonrevolved the events of the evening. The thought that he should see nomore of that white hand and that lovely mouth, which still haunted hisrecollection as appertaining to the incognita, greatly indisposed himtowards the abrupt flight intended by Gawtrey, while (so much had hisfaith in that person depended upon respect for his confident daring, andso thoroughly fearless was Morton's own nature) he felt himself greatlyshaken in his allegiance to the chief, by recollecting the effectproduced on his valour by a single glance from the instrument of law. He had not yet lived long enough to be aware that men are sometimesthe Representatives of Things; that what the scytale was to the Spartanhero, a sheriff's writ often is to a Waterloo medallist: that a BowStreet runner will enter the foulest den where Murder sits with hisfellows, and pick out his prey with the beck of his forefinger. That, in short, the thing called LAW, once made tangible and present, rarelyfails to palsy the fierce heart of the thing called CRIME. For Law isthe symbol of all mankind reared against One Foe--the Man of Crime. Notyet aware of this truth, nor, indeed, in the least suspecting Gawtrey ofworse offences than those of a charlatanic and equivocal profession, theyoung man mused over his protector's cowardice in disdain and wonder:till, wearied with conjectures, distrust, and shame at his own strangeposition of obligation to one whom he could not respect, he fell asleep. 

When he woke, he saw the grey light of dawn that streamed cheerlesslythrough his shutterless window, struggling with the faint ray of acandle that Gawtrey, shading with his hand, held over the sleeper. Hestarted up, and, in the confusion of waking and the imperfect light bywhich he beheld the strong features of Gawtrey, half imagined it was afoe who stood before him. 

"Take care, man, " said Gawtrey, as Morton, in this belief, grasped hisarm. "You have a precious rough gripe of your own. Be quiet, will you? Ihave a word to say to you. " Here Gawtrey, placing the candle on a chair, returned to the door and closed it. 

"Look you, " he said in a whisper, "I have nearly run through my circleof invention, and my wit, fertile as it is, can present to me littleencouragement in the future. The eyes of this Favart once on me, everydisguise and every double will not long avail. I dare not return toLondon: I am too well known in Brussels, Berlin, and Vienna--"

"But, " interrupted Morton, raising himself on his arm, and fixing hisdark eyes upon his host, --"but you have told me again and again that youhave committed no crime; why then be so fearful of discovery?"

"Why, " repeated Gawtrey, with a slight hesitation which he instantlyovercame, "why! have not you yourself learned that appearances have theeffect of crimes?--were you not chased as a thief when I rescued youfrom your foe, the law?--are you not, though a boy in years, underan alias, and an exile from your own land? And how can you put theseaustere questions to me, who am growing grey in the endeavour to extractsunbeams from cucumbers--subsistence from poverty? I repeat that thereare reasons why I must avoid, for the present, the great capitals. Imust sink in life, and take to the provinces. Birnie is sanguine asever; but he is a terrible sort of comforter! Enough of that. Now toyourself: our savings are less than you might expect; to be sure, Birniehas been treasurer, and I have laid by a little for Fanny, which I willrather starve than touch. There remain, however, 150 napoleons, and oureffects, sold at a fourth their value, will fetch 150 more. Here is yourshare. I have compassion on you. I told you I would bear you harmlessand innocent. Leave us while yet time. "

It seemed, then, to Morton that Gawtrey had divined his thoughts ofshame and escape of the previous night; perhaps Gawtrey had: and such isthe human heart, that, instead of welcoming the very release he had halfcontemplated, now that it was offered him, Philip shrank from it as abase desertion. 

"Poor Gawtrey!" said he, pushing back the canvas bag of gold held out tohim, "you shall not go over the world, and feel that the orphan you fedand fostered left you to starve with your money in his pocket. When youagain assure me that you have committed no crime, you again remind methat gratitude has no right to be severe upon the shifts and errors ofits benefactor. If you do not conform to society, what has society donefor me? No! I will not forsake you in a reverse. Fortune has given you afall. What, then, courage, and at her again!"

These last words were said so heartily and cheerfully as Morton sprangfrom the bed, that they inspirited Gawtrey, who had really desponded ofhis lot. 

"Well, " said he, "I cannot reject the only friend left me; and whileI live--. But I will make no professions. Quick, then, our luggage isalready gone, and I hear Birnie grunting the rogue's march of retreat. "

Morton's toilet was soon completed, and the three associates bade adieuto the bureau. 

Birnie, who was taciturn and impenetrable as ever, walked a littlebefore as guide. They arrived, at length, at a serrurier's shop, placedin an alley near the Porte St. Denis. The serrurier himself, a tall, begrimed, blackbearded man, was taking the shutters from his shop asthey approached. He and Birnie exchanged silent nods; and the former, leaving his work, conducted them up a very filthy flight of stairs to anattic, where a bed, two stools, one table, and an old walnut-tree bureauformed the sole articles of furniture. Gawtrey looked rather ruefullyround the black, low, damp walls, and said in a crestfallen tone:

"We were better off at the Temple of Hymen. But get us a bottle of wine, some eggs, and a frying-pan. By Jove, I am a capital hand at an omelet!"

The serrurier nodded again, grinned, and withdrew. 

"Rest here, " said Birnie, in his calm, passionless voice, that seemed toMorton, however, to assume an unwonted tone of command. "I will go andmake the best bargain I can for our furniture, buy fresh clothes, andengage our places for Tours. "

"For Tours?" repeated Morton. 

"Yes, there are some English there; one can live wherever there areEnglish, " said Gawtrey. 

"Hum!" grunted Birnie, drily, and, buttoning up his coat, he walkedslowly away. 

About noon he returned with a bundle of clothes, which Gawtrey, whoalways regained his elasticity of spirit wherever there was fair playto his talents, examined with great attention, and many exclamations of"Bon!--c'est va. "

"I have done well with the Jew, " said Birnie, drawing from his coatpocket two heavy bags. "One hundred and eighty napoleons. We shallcommence with a good capital. "

"You are right, my friend, " said Gawtrey. 

The serrurier was then despatched to the best restaurant in theneighbourhood, and the three adventurers made a less Socratic dinnerthan might have been expected. 

CHAPTER VI. 

 "Then out again he flies to wing his marry round. " THOMPSON'S Castle of Indolence. 

 "Again he gazed, 'It is, ' said he, 'the same; There sits he upright in his seat secure, As one whose conscience is correct and pure. '"--CRABBE. 

The adventurers arrived at Tours, and established themselves there in alodging, without any incident worth narrating by the way. 

At Tours Morton had nothing to do but take his pleasure and enjoyhimself. He passed for a young heir; Gawtrey for his tutor--a doctor indivinity; Birnie for his valet. The task of maintenance fell on Gawtrey, who hit off his character to a hair; larded his grave jokes withuniversity scraps of Latin; looked big and well-fed; wore knee-breechesand a shovel hat; and played whist with the skill of a veteran vicar. Byhis science in that game he made, at first, enough; at least, to defraytheir weekly expenses. But, by degrees, the good people at Tours, who, under pretence of health, were there for economy, grew shy of soexcellent a player; and though Gawtrey always swore solemnly that heplayed with the most scrupulous honour (an asseveration which Morton, at least, implicitly believed), and no proof to the contrary was everdetected, yet a first-rate card-player is always a suspicious character, unless the losing parties know exactly who he is. The market fell off, and Gawtrey at length thought it prudent to extend their travels. 

"Ah!" said Mr. Gawtrey, "the world nowadays has grown so ostentatiousthat one cannot travel advantageously without a post-chariot and fourhorses. " At length they found themselves at Milan, which at that timewas one of the El Dorados for gamesters. Here, however, for want ofintroductions, Mr. Gawtrey found it difficult to get into society. The nobles, proud and rich, played high, but were circumspect in theircompany; the bourgeoisie, industrious and energetic, preserved muchof the old Lombard shrewdness; there were no tables d'hote and publicreunions. Gawtrey saw his little capital daily diminishing, with theAlps at the rear and Poverty in the van. At length, always on the quivive, he contrived to make acquaintance with a Scotch family of greatrespectability. He effected this by picking up a snuff-box which theScotchman had dropped in taking out his handkerchief. This politenesspaved the way to a conversation in which Gawtrey made himself soagreeable, and talked with such zest of the Modern Athens, and thetricks practised upon travellers, that he was presented to Mrs. Macgregor; cards were interchanged, and, as Mr. Gawtrey lived intolerable style, the Macgregors pronounced him "a vara genteel mon. "Once in the house of a respectable person, Gawtrey contrived to turnhimself round and round, till he burrowed a hole into the English circlethen settled in Milan. His whist-playing came into requisition, and oncemore Fortune smiled upon Skill. 

To this house the pupil one evening accompanied the tutor. When thewhist party, consisting of two tables, was formed, the young man foundhimself left out with an old gentleman, who seemed loquacious andgood-natured, and who put many questions to Morton, which he foundit difficult to answer. One of the whist tables was now in a state ofrevolution, viz. , a lady had cut out and a gentleman cut in, when thedoor opened, and Lord Lilburne was announced. 

Mr. Macgregor, rising, advanced with great respect to this personage. 

"I scarcely ventured to hope you would coom, Lord Lilburne, the night isso cold. "

"You did not allow sufficiently, then, for the dulness of my solitaryinn and the attractions of your circle. Aha! whist, I see. "

"You play sometimes?"

"Very seldom, now; I have sown all my wild oats, and even the ace ofspades can scarcely dig them out again. "

"Ha! ha! vara gude. "

"I will look on;" and Lord Lilburne drew his chair to the table, exactlyopposite to Mr. Gawtrey. 

The old gentleman turned to Philip. 

"An extraordinary man, Lord Lilburne; you have heard of him, of course?"

"No, indeed; what of him?" asked the young man, rousing himself. 

"What of him?" said the old gentleman, with a smile; "why thenewspapers, if you ever read them, will tell you enough of the elegant, the witty Lord Lilburne; a man of eminent talent, though indolent. Hewas wild in his youth, as clever men often are; but, on attaining histitle and fortune, and marrying into the family of the then premier, hebecame more sedate. They say he might make a great figure in politics ifhe would. He has a very high reputation--very. People do say that heis still fond of pleasure; but that is a common failing amongst thearistocracy. Morality is only found in the middle classes, younggentleman. It is a lucky family, that of Lilburne; his sister, Mrs. Beaufort--"

"Beaufort!" exclaimed Morton, and then muttered to himself, "Ah, true--true; I have heard the name of Lilburne before. "

"Do you know the Beauforts? Well, you remember how luckily Robert, Lilburne's brother-in-law, came into that fine property just as hispredecessor was about to marry a--"

Morton scowled at his garrulous acquaintance, and stalked abruptly tothe card table. 

Ever since Lord Lilburne had seated himself opposite to Mr. Gawtrey, that gentleman had evinced a perturbation of manner that became obviousto the company. He grew deadly pale, his hands trembled, he moveduneasily in his seat, he missed deal, he trumped his partner's bestdiamond; finally he revoked, threw down his money, and said, with aforced smile, "that the heat of the room overcame him. " As he rose LordLilburne rose also, and the eyes of both met. Those of Lilburne werecalm, but penetrating and inquisitive in their gaze; those of Gawtreywere like balls of fire. He seemed gradually to dilate in his height, his broad chest expanded, he breathed hard. 

"Ah, Doctor, " said Mr. Macgregor, "let me introduce you to LordLilburne. "

The peer bowed haughtily; Mr. Gawtrey did not return the salutation, but with a sort of gulp, as if he were swallowing some burst of passion, strode to the fire, and then, turning round, again fixed his gaze uponthe new guest. 

Lilburne, however, who had never lost his self-composure at this strangerudeness, was now quietly talking with their host. 

"Your Doctor seems an eccentric man--a little absent--learned, Isuppose. Have you been to Como, yet?"

Mr. Gawtrey remained by the fire beating the devil's tattoo upon thechimney-piece, and ever and anon turning his glance towards Lilburne, who seemed to have forgotten his existence. 

Both these guests stayed till the party broke up; Mr. Gawtrey apparentlywishing to outstay Lord Lilburne; for, when the last went down-stairs, Mr. Gawtrey, nodding to his comrade and giving a hurried bow to thehost, descended also. As they passed the porter's lodge, they foundLilburne on the step of his carriage; he turned his head abruptly, andagain met Mr. Gawtrey's eye; paused a moment, and whispered over hisshoulder:

"So we remember each other, sir? Let us not meet again; and, on thatcondition, bygones are bygones. "

"Scoundrel!" muttered Gawtrey, clenching his fists; but the peer hadsprung into his carriage with a lightness scarcely to be expected fromhis lameness, and the wheels whirled within an inch of the soi-disantdoctor's right pump. 

Gawtrey walked on for some moments in great excitement; at length heturned to his companion, --

"Do you guess who Lord Lilburne is? I will tell you my first foeand Fanny's grandfather! Now, note the justice of Fate: here is thisman--mark well--this man who commenced life by putting his faults on myown shoulders! From that little boss has fungused out a terrible hump. This man who seduced my affianced bride, and then left her whole soul, once fair and blooming--I swear it--with its leaves fresh from the dewsof heaven, one rank leprosy, this man who, rolling in riches, learned tocheat and pilfer as a boy learns to dance and play the fiddle, and (todamn me, whose happiness he had blasted) accused me to the world of hisown crime!--here is this man who has not left off one vice, but addedto those of his youth the bloodless craft of the veteran knave;--hereis this man, flattered, courted, great, marching through lanes of bowingparasites to an illustrious epitaph and a marble tomb, and I, a roguetoo, if you will, but rogue for my bread, dating from him my errorsand my ruin! I--vagabond--outcast--skulking through tricks to avoidcrime--why the difference? Because one is born rich and the otherpoor--because he has no excuse for crime, and therefore no one suspectshim!"

The wretched man (for at that moment he was wretched) paused breathlessfrom his passionate and rapid burst, and before him rose in its marblemajesty, with the moon full upon its shining spires--the wonder ofGothic Italy--the Cathedral Church of Milan. 

"Chafe not yourself at the universal fate, " said the young man, witha bitter smile on his lips and pointing to the cathedral; "I have notlived long, but I have learned already enough to know this? he who couldraise a pile like that, dedicated to Heaven, would be honoured as asaint; he who knelt to God by the roadside under a hedge would be sentto the house of correction as a vagabond. The difference between manand man is money, and will be, when you, the despised charlatan, andLilburne, the honoured cheat, have not left as much dust behind you aswill fill a snuff-box. Comfort yourself, you are in the majority. "

CHAPTER VII. 

 "A desert wild Before them stretched bare, comfortless, and vast, With gibbets, bones, and carcasses defiled. " THOMPSON'S Castle of Indolenece. 

Mr. Gawtrey did not wish to give his foe the triumph of thinking he haddriven him from Milan; he resolved to stay and brave it out; but whenhe appeared in public, he found the acquaintances he had formed bowpolitely, but cross to the other side of the way. No more invitationsto tea and cards showered in upon the jolly parson. He was puzzled, forpeople, while they shunned him, did not appear uncivil. He found out atlast that a report was circulated that he was deranged; though he couldnot trace this rumour to Lord Lilburne, he was at no loss to guess fromwhom it had emanated. His own eccentricities, especially his recentmanner at Mr. Macgregor's, gave confirmation to the charge. Again thefunds began to sink low in the canvas bags, and at length, in despair, Mr. Gawtrey was obliged to quit the field. They returned to Francethrough Switzerland--a country too poor for gamesters; and ever sincethe interview with Lilburne, a great change had come over Gawtrey's gayspirit: he grew moody and thoughtful, he took no pains to replenish thecommon stock, he talked much and seriously to his young friend of poorFanny, and owned that he yearned to see her again. The desire to returnto Paris haunted him like a fatality; he saw the danger that awaitedhim there, but it only allured him the more, as the candle does the mothwhose wings it has singed. Birnie, who, in all their vicissitudes andwanderings, their ups and downs, retained the same tacit, immovabledemeanour, received with a sneer the orders at last to march back uponthe French capital. "You would never have left it, if you had taken myadvice, " he said, and quitted the room. 

Mr. Gawtrey gazed after him and muttered, "Is the die then cast?"

"What does he mean?" said Morton. 

"You will know soon, " replied Gawtrey, and he followed Birnie; and fromthat time the whispered conferences with that person, which had seemedsuspended during their travels, were renewed. 

 . .. .. .. .. . 

One morning, three men were seen entering Paris on foot through thePorte St. Denis. It was a fine day in spring, and the old city lookedgay with its loitering passengers and gaudy shops, and under that clearblue exhilarating sky so peculiar to France. 

Two of these men walked abreast, the other preceded them a few steps. The one who went first--thin, pale, and threadbare--yet seemed to sufferthe least from fatigue; he walked with a long, swinging, noiselessstride, looking to the right and left from the corners of his eyes. Ofthe two who followed, one was handsome and finely formed, but of swarthycomplexion, young, yet with a look of care; the other, of sturdy frame, leaned on a thick stick, and his eyes were gloomily cast down. 

"Philip, " said the last, "in coming back to Paris--I feel that I amcoming back to my grave!"

"Pooh--you were equally despondent in our excursions elsewhere. "

"Because I was always thinking of poor Fanny, andbecause--because--Birnie was ever at me with his horrible temptations!"

"Birnie! I loathe the man! Will you never get rid of him?"

"I cannot! Hush! he will hear us. How unlucky we have been! and nowwithout a son in our pockets--here the dunghill--there the gaol! We arein his power at last!"

"His power! what mean you?"

"What ho! Birnie!" cried Gawtrey, unheeding Morton's question. "Let ushalt and breakfast: I am tired. "

"You forget!--we have no money till we make it, " returned Birnie, coldly. --"Come to the serrurier's he will trust us. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

 "Gaunt Beggary and Scorn with many bell-hounds more. " THOMSON'S Castle of Indolence. 

 "The other was a fell, despiteful fiend. "--Ibid. 

 "Your happiness behold! then straight a wand He waved, an anti-magic power that hath Truth from illusive falsehood to command. "--Ibid. 

 "But what for us, the children of despair, Brought to the brink of hell--what hope remains? RESOLVE, RESOLVE!"--Ibid. 

It may be observed that there are certain years in which in a civilisedcountry some particular crime comes into vogue. It flares its season, and then burns out. Thus at one time we have Burking--at another, Swingism--now, suicide is in vogue--now, poisoning tradespeople inapple-dumplings--now, little boys stab each other with penknives--now, common soldiers shoot at their sergeants. Almost every year there is onecrime peculiar to it; a sort of annual which overruns the country butdoes not bloom again. Unquestionably the Press has a great deal todo with these epidemics. Let a newspaper once give an account of someout-of-the-way atrocity that has the charm of being novel, and certaindepraved minds fasten to it like leeches. They brood over and revolveit--the idea grows up, a horrid phantasmalian monomania; and all of asudden, in a hundred different places, the one seed sown by the leadentypes springs up into foul flowering. 

 [An old Spanish writer, treating of the Inquisition, has some very striking remarks on the kind of madness which, whenever some terrible notoriety is given to a particular offence, leads persons of distempered fancy to accuse themselves of it. He observes that when the cruelties of the Inquisition against the imaginary crime of sorcery were the most barbarous, this singular frenzy led numbers to accuse themselves of sorcery. The publication and celebrity of the crime begat the desire of the crime. ]

But if the first reported aboriginal crime has been attended withimpunity, how much more does the imitative faculty cling to it. Ill-judged mercy falls, not like dew, but like a great heap of manure, on the rank deed. 

Now it happened that at the time I write of, or rather a little before, there had been detected and tried in Paris a most redoubted coiner. Hehad carried on the business with a dexterity that won admiration evenfor the offence; and, moreover, he had served previously with somedistinction at Austerlitz and Marengo. The consequence was that thepublic went with instead of against him, and his sentence was transmutedto three years' imprisonment by the government. For all governments infree countries aspire rather to be popular than just. 

No sooner was this case reported in the journals--and even the gravesttook notice, of it (which is not common with the scholastic journalsof France)--no sooner did it make a stir and a sensation, and cover thecriminal with celebrity, than the result became noticeable in a verylarge issue of false money. 

Coining in the year I now write of was the fashionable crime. The policewere roused into full vigour: it became known to them that there was onegang in especial who cultivated this art with singular success. Theircoinage was, indeed, so good, so superior to all their rivals, that itwas often unconsciously preferred by the public to the real mintage. Atthe same time they carried on their calling with such secrecy that theyutterly baffled discovery. 

An immense reward was offered by the bureau to any one who wouldbetray his accomplices, and Monsieur Favart was placed at the head of acommission of inquiry. This person had himself been a faux monnoyer, andwas an adept in the art, and it was he who had discovered the redoubtedcoiner who had brought the crime into such notoriety. Monsieur Favartwas a man of the most vigilant acuteness, the most indefatigableresearch, and of a courage which; perhaps, is more common than wesuppose. It is a popular error to suppose that courage means courage ineverything. Put a hero on board ship at a five-barred gate, and, if heis not used to hunting, he will turn pale; put a fox-hunter on one ofthe Swiss chasms, over which the mountaineer springs like a roe, andhis knees will knock under him. People are brave in the dangers to whichthey accustom themselves, either in imagination or practice. 

Monsieur Favart, then, was a man of the most daring bravery in facingrogues and cut-throats. He awed them with his very eye; yet he had beenknown to have been kicked down-stairs by his wife, and when he was drawninto the grand army, he deserted the eve of his first battle. Such, asmoralists say, is the inconsistency of man!

But Monsieur Favart was sworn to trace the coiners, and he had neverfailed yet in any enterprise he undertook. One day he presentedhimself to his chief with a countenance so elated that that penetratingfunctionary said to him at once--

"You have heard of our messieurs!"

"I have: I am to visit them to-night. "

"Bravo! How many men will you take?"

"From twelve to twenty to leave without on guard. But I must enteralone. Such is the condition: an accomplice who fears his own throat toomuch to be openly a betrayer will introduce me to the house--nay, to thevery room. By his description it is necessary I should know the exactlocale in order to cut off retreat; so to-morrow night I shall surroundthe beehive and take the honey. "

"They are desperate fellows, these coiners, always; better be cautious. "

"You forget I was one of them, and know the masonry. " About the sametime this conversation was going on at the bureau of the police, inanother part of the town Morton and Gawtrey were seated alone. Itis some weeks since they entered Paris, and spring has mellowed intosummer. 

The house in which they lodged was in the lordly quartier of theFaubourg St. Germain; the neighbouring streets were venerable withthe ancient edifices of a fallen noblesse; but their tenement was in anarrow, dingy lane, and the building itself seemed beggarly and ruinous. The apartment was in an attic on the sixth story, and the window, placedat the back of the lane, looked upon another row of houses of a betterdescription, that communicated with one of the great streets of thequartier. The space between their abode and their opposite neighbourswas so narrow that the sun could scarcely pierce between. In the heightof summer might be found there a perpetual shade. 

The pair were seated by the window. Gawtrey, well-dressed, smooth-shaven, as in his palmy time; Morton, in the same garments withwhich he had entered Paris, weather-stained and ragged. Lookingtowards the casements of the attic in the opposite house, Gawtreysaid, mutteringly, "I wonder where Birnie has been, and why he has notreturned. I grow suspicious of that man. "

"Suspicious of what?" asked Morton. "Of his honesty? Would he rob you?"

"Rob me! Humph--perhaps! but you see I am in Paris, in spite of thehints of the police; he may denounce me. "

"Why, then, suffer him to lodge away from you?"

"Why? because, by having separate houses there are two channels ofescape. A dark night, and a ladder thrown across from window to window, he is with us, or we with him. "

"But wherefore such precautions? You blind--you deceive me; whathave you done?--what is your employment now? You are, mute. Hark you, Gawtrey. I have pinned my fate to you--I am fallen from hope itself! Attimes it almost makes me mad to look back--and yet you do not trust me. Since your return to Paris you are absent whole nights--often days; youare moody and thoughtful-yet, whatever your business, it seems to bringyou ample returns. "

"You think that, " said Gawtrey, mildly, and with a sort of pity in hisvoice; "yet you refuse to take even the money to change those rags. "

"Because I know not how the money was gained. Ah, Gawtrey, I am not tooproud for charity, but I am for--" He checked the word uppermost in histhoughts, and resumed--

"Yes; your occupations seem lucrative. It was but yesterday Birnie gaveme fifty napoleons, for which he said you wished change in silver. "

"Did he? The ras-- Well! and you got change for them?"

"I know not why, but I refused. "

"That was right, Philip. Do nothing that man tells you. "

"Will you, then, trust me? You are engaged in some horrible traffic! itmay be blood! I am no longer a boy--I have a will of my own--I will notbe silently and blindly entrapped to perdition. If I march thither, it shall be with my own consent. Trust me, and this day, or we partto-morrow. "

"Be ruled. Some secrets it is better not to know. "

"It matters not. I have come to my decision--I ask yours. "

Gawtrey paused for some moments in deep thought. At last he lifted hiseyes to Philip, and replied:

"Well, then, if it must be. Sooner or later it must have been so; and Iwant a confidant. You are bold, and will not shrink. You desire to knowmy occupation--will you witness it to-night?"

"I am prepared: to-night!"

Here a step was heard on the stairs--a knock at the door--and Birnieentered. 

He drew aside Gawtrey, and whispered him, as usual, for some moments. 

Gawtrey nodded his head, and then said aloud--

"To-morrow we shall talk without reserve before my young friend. To-night he joins us. "

"To-night!--very well, " said Birnie, with his cold sneer. "He must takethe oath; and you, with your life, will be responsible for his honesty?"

"Ay! it is the rule. "

"Good-bye, then, till we meet, " said Birnie, and withdrew. 

"I wonder, " said Gawtrey, musingly, and between his grinded teeth, "whether I shall ever have a good fair shot at that fellow? Ho! ho!" andhis laugh shook the walls. 

Morton looked hard at Gawtrey, as the latter now sank down in hischair, and gazed with a vacant stare, that seemed almost to partakeof imbecility, upon the opposite wall. The careless, reckless, jovialexpression, which usually characterised the features of the man, had forsome weeks given place to a restless, anxious, and at times ferociousaspect, like the beast that first finds a sport while the hounds are yetafar, and his limbs are yet strong, in the chase which marks him forhis victim, but grows desperate with rage and fear as the day nears itsclose, and the death-dogs pant hard upon his track. But at that momentthe strong features, with their gnarled muscle and iron sinews, seemedto have lost every sign both of passion and the will, and to be lockedin a stolid and dull repose. At last he looked up at Morton, and said, with a smile like that of an old man in his dotage--

"I'm thinking that my life has been one mistake! I had talents--youwould not fancy it--but once I was neither a fool nor a villain! Odd, isn't it? Just reach me the brandy. "

But Morton, with a slight shudder, turned and left the room. 

He walked on mechanically, and gained, at last, the superb Quai thatborders the Seine; there, the passengers became more frequent; gayequipages rolled along; the white and lofty mansions looked fair andstately in the clear blue sky of early summer; beside him flowed thesparkling river, animated with the painted baths that floated on itssurface: earth was merry and heaven serene his heart was dark throughall: Night within--Morning beautiful without! At last he paused bythat bridge, stately with the statues of those whom the caprice of timehonours with a name; for though Zeus and his gods be overthrown, whileearth exists will live the worship of Dead Men;--the bridge by which youpass from the royal Tuileries, or the luxurious streets beyond the Ruede Rivoli, to the Senate of the emancipated People, and the gloomy anddesolate grandeur of the Faubourg St. Germain, in whose venerable hauntsthe impoverished descendants of the old feudal tyrants, whom the birthof the Senate overthrew, yet congregate;--the ghosts of departed powersproud of the shadows of great names. As the English outcast pausedmidway on the bridge, and for the first time lifting his head fromhis bosom, gazed around, there broke at once on his remembrance thatterrible and fatal evening, when, hopeless, friendless, desperate, hehad begged for charity of his uncle's hireling, with all the feelingsthat then (so imperfectly and lightly touched on in his brief narrativeto Gawtrey) had raged and blackened in his breast, urging to theresolution he had adopted, casting him on the ominous friendship of theman whose guidance he even then had suspected and distrusted. The spotin either city had a certain similitude and correspondence each witheach: at the first he had consummated his despair of human destinies--hehad dared to forget the Providence of God--he had arrogated his fate tohimself: by the first bridge he had taken his resolve; by the last hestood in awe at the result--stood no less poor--no less abject--equallyin rags and squalor; but was his crest as haughty and his eye asfearless, for was his conscience as free and his honour as unstained?Those arches of stone--those rivers that rolled between, seemed to himthen to take a more mystic and typical sense than belongs to the outerworld--they were the bridges to the Rivers of his Life. Plunged inthoughts so confused and dim that he could scarcely distinguish, through the chaos, the one streak of light which, perhaps, heraldedthe reconstruction or regeneration of the elements of his soul;--twopassengers halted, also by his side. 

"You will be late for the debate, " said one of them to the other. "Whydo you stop?"

"My friend, " said the other, "I never pass this spot without recallingthe time when I stood here without a son, or, as I thought, a chance ofone, and impiously meditated self-destruction. "

"You!--now so rich--so fortunate in repute and station--is it possible?How was it? A lucky chance?--a sudden legacy?"

"No: Time, Faith, and Energy--the three Friends God has given to thePoor!"

The men moved on; but Morton, who had turned his face towards them, fancied that the last speaker fixed on him his bright, cheerful eye, with a meaning look; and when the man was gone, he repeated those words, and hailed them in his heart of hearts as an augury from above. 

Quickly, then, and as if by magic, the former confusion of his mindseemed to settle into distinct shapes of courage and resolve. "Yes, " hemuttered; "I will keep this night's appointment--I will learn the secretof these men's life. In my inexperience and destitution, I have sufferedmyself to be led hitherto into a partnership, if not with vice andcrime, at least with subterfuge and trick. I awake from my recklessboyhood--my unworthy palterings with my better self. If Gawtrey be as Idread to find him--if he be linked in some guilty and hateful traffic;with that loathsome accomplice--I will--" He paused, for his heartwhispered, "Well, and even so, --the guilty man clothed and fed thee!""I will, " resumed his thought, in answer to his heart--"I willgo on my knees to him to fly while there is yet time, towork--beg--starve--perish even--rather than lose the right to look manin the face without a blush, and kneel to his God without remorse!"

And as he thus ended, he felt suddenly as if he himself were restored tothe perception and the joy of the Nature and the World around him; theNIGHT had vanished from his soul--he inhaled the balm and freshnessof the air--he comprehended the delight which the liberal June wasscattering over the earth--he looked above, and his eyes were suffusedwith pleasure, at the smile of the soft blue skies. The MORNING became, as it were, a part of his own being; and he felt that as the world inspite of the storms is fair, so in spite of evil God is good. He walkedon--he passed the bridge, but his step was no more the same, --he forgothis rags. Why should he be ashamed? And thus, in the very flush of thisnew and strange elation and elasticity of spirit, he came unawares upona group of young men, lounging before the porch of one of the chiefhotels in that splendid Rue de Rivoli, wherein Wealth and the Englishhave made their homes. A groom, mounted, was leading another horseup and down the road, and the young men were making their comments ofapprobation upon both the horses, especially the one led, which was, indeed, of uncommon beauty and great value. Even Morton, in whom theboyish passion of his earlier life yet existed, paused to turn hisexperienced and admiring eye upon the stately shape and pace of thenoble animal, and as he did so, a name too well remembered came upon hisear. 

"Certainly, Arthur Beaufort is the most enviable fellow in Europe. "

"Why, yes, " said another of the young men; "he has plenty of money--isgood-looking, devilish good-natured, clever, and spends like a prince. "

"Has the best horses!"

"The best luck at roulette!"

"The prettiest girls in love with him!"

"And no one enjoys life more. Ah! here he is!"

The group parted as a light, graceful figure came out of a jeweller'sshop that adjoined the hotel, and halted gaily amongst the loungers. Morton's first impulse was to hurry from the spot; his second impulsearrested his step, and, a little apart, and half-hid beneath one of thearches of the colonnade which adorns the street, the Outcast gazed upon. The Heir. There was no comparison in the natural personal advantages ofthe two young men; for Philip Morton, despite all the hardships of hisrough career, had now grown up and ripened into a rare perfectionof form and feature. His broad chest, his erect air, his lithe andsymmetrical length of limb, united, happily, the attributes of activityand strength; and though there was no delicacy of youthful bloom uponhis dark cheek, and though lines which should have come later marredits smoothness with the signs of care and thought, yet an expression ofintelligence and daring, equally beyond his years, and the evidence ofhardy, abstemious, vigorous health, served to show to the full advantagethe outline of features which, noble and regular, though stern andmasculine, the artist might have borrowed for his ideal of a youngSpartan arming for his first battle. Arthur, slight to feebleness, andwith the paleness, partly of constitution, partly of gay excess, onhis fair and clear complexion, had features far less symmetrical andimpressive than his cousin: but what then? All that are bestowed byelegance of dress, the refinements of luxurious habit, the namelessgrace that comes from a mind and a manner polished, the one by literaryculture, the other by social intercourse, invested the person of theheir with a fascination that rude Nature alone ever fails to give. Andabout him there was a gaiety, an airiness of spirit, an atmosphere ofenjoyment which bespoke one who is in love with life. 

"Why, this is lucky! I'm so glad to see you all!" said Arthur Beaufort, with that silver-ringing tone and charming smile which are to the happyspring of man what its music and its sunshine are to the spring ofearth. "You must dine with me at Verey's. I want something to rouse meto-day; for I did not get home from the Salon* till four this morning. "

 *[The most celebrated gaming-house in Paris in the day before gaming-houses were suppressed by the well-directed energy of the government. ]

"But you won?"

"Yes, Marsden. Hang it! I always win: I who could so well afford tolose: I'm quite ashamed of my luck!"

"It is easy to spend what one wins, " observed Mr. Marsden, sententiously; "and I see you have been at the jeweller's! A present forCecile? Well, don't blush, my dear fellow. What is life without women?"

"And wine?" said a second. "And play?" said a third. "And wealth?" saida fourth. 

"And you enjoy them all! Happy fellow!" said a fifth. The Outcast pulledhis hat over his brows, and walked away. 

"This dear Paris, " said Beaufort, as his eye carelessly andunconsciously followed the dark form retreating through thearches;--"this dear Paris! I must make the most of it while I stay! Ihave only been here a few weeks, and next week I must go. "

"Pooh--your health is better: you don't look like the same man. "

"You think so really? Still I don't know: the doctors say that I musteither go to the German waters--the season is begun--or--"

"Or what?"

"Live less with such pleasant companions, my dear fellow! But as yousay, what is life without--"

"Women!"

"Wine!"

"Play!"

"Wealth!"

"Ha! ha. 'Throw physic to the dogs: I'll none of it!'"

And Arthur leaped lightly on his saddle, and as he rode gaily on, humming the favourite air of the last opera, the hoofs of his horsesplashed the mud over a foot-passenger halting at the crossing. Mortonchecked the fiery exclamation rising to his lips; and gazing afterthe brilliant form that hurried on towards the Champs Elysees, his eyecaught the statues on the bridge, and a voice, as of a cheering angel, whispered again to his heart, "TIME, FAITH, ENERGY!"

The expression of his countenance grew calm at once, and as he continuedhis rambles it was with a mind that, casting off the burdens of thepast, looked serenely and steadily on the obstacles and hardships ofthe future. We have seen that a scruple of conscience or of pride, notwithout its nobleness, had made him refuse the importunities of Gawtreyfor less sordid raiment; the same feeling made it his custom to avoidsharing the luxurious and dainty food with which Gawtrey was wontto regale himself. For that strange man, whose wonderful felicity oftemperament and constitution rendered him, in all circumstances, keenlyalive to the hearty and animal enjoyments of life, would still emerge, as the day declined, from their wretched apartment, and, trusting to hisdisguises, in which indeed he possessed a masterly art, repair to one ofthe better description of restaurants, and feast away his cares for themoment. William Gawtrey would not have cared three straws for thecurse of Damocles. The sword over his head would never have spoiled hisappetite! He had lately, too, taken to drinking much more deeply than hehad been used to do--the fine intellect of the man was growing thickenedand dulled; and this was a spectacle that Morton could not bear tocontemplate. Yet so great was Gawtrey's vigour of health, that, afterdraining wine and spirits enough to have despatched a company offox-hunters, and after betraying, sometimes in uproarious glee, sometimes in maudlin self-bewailings, that he himself was not quiteinvulnerable to the thyrsus of the god, he would--on any call on hisenergies, or especially before departing on those mysterious expeditionswhich kept him from home half, and sometimes all, the night--plunge hishead into cold water--drink as much of the lymph as a groom would haveshuddered to bestow on a horse--close his eyes in a doze for half anhour, and wake, cool, sober, and collected, as if he had lived accordingto the precepts of Socrates or Cornaro!

But to return to Morton. It was his habit to avoid as much as possiblesharing the good cheer of his companion; and now, as he entered theChamps Elysees, he saw a little family, consisting of a young mechanic, his wife, and two children, who, with that love of harmless recreationwhich yet characterises the French, had taken advantage of a holiday inthe craft, and were enjoying their simple meal under the shadow of thetrees. Whether in hunger or in envy, Morton paused and contemplated thehappy group. Along the road rolled the equipages and trampled the steedsof those to whom all life is a holiday. There, was Pleasure--under thosetrees was Happiness. One of the children, a little boy of about sixyears old, observing the attitude and gaze of the pausing wayfarer, ranto him, and holding up a fragment of a coarse kind of cake, said to him, willingly, "Take it--I have had enough!" The child reminded Morton ofhis brother--his heart melted within him--he lifted the young Samaritanin his arms, and as he kissed him, wept. 

The mother observed and rose also. She laid her hand on his own: "Poorboy! why do you weep?--can we relieve you?"

Now that bright gleam of human nature, suddenly darting across thesombre recollections and associations of his past life, seemed to Mortonas if it came from Heaven, in approval and in blessing of this attemptat reconciliation to his fate. 

"I thank you, " said he, placing the child on the ground, and passing hishand over his eyes, --"I thank you--yes! Let me sit down amongst you. "And he sat down, the child by his side, and partook of their fare, andwas merry with them, --the proud Philip!--had he not begun to discoverthe "precious jewel" in the "ugly and venomous" Adversity?

The mechanic, though a gay fellow on the whole, was not without some ofthat discontent of his station which is common with his class; he ventedit, however, not in murmurs, but in jests. He was satirical on thecarriages and the horsemen that passed; and, lolling on the grass, ridiculed his betters at his ease. 

"Hush!" said his wife, suddenly; "here comes Madame de Merville;" andrising as she spoke, she made a respectful inclination of her headtowards an open carriage that was passing very slowly towards the town. 

"Madame de Merville!" repeated the husband, rising also, and lifting hiscap from his head. "Ah! I have nothing to say against her!"

Morton looked instinctively towards the carriage, and saw a faircountenance turned graciously to answer the silent salutations of themechanic and his wife--a countenance that had long haunted hisdreams, though of late it had faded away beneath harsher thoughts--thecountenance of the stranger whom he had seen at the bureau of Gawtrey, when that worthy personage had borne a more mellifluous name. He startedand changed colour: the lady herself now seemed suddenly to recognisehim; for their eyes met, and she bent forward eagerly. She pulled thecheck-string--the carriage halted--she beckoned to the mechanic's wife, who went up to the roadside. 

"I worked once for that lady, " said the man with a tone of feeling; "andwhen my wife fell ill last winter she paid the doctors. Ah, she is anangel of charity and kindness!"

Morton scarcely heard this eulogium, for he observed, by something eagerand inquisitive in the face of Madame de Merville, and by the suddenmanner in which the mechanic's helpmate turned her head to the spot inwhich he stood, that he was the object of their conversation. Oncemore he became suddenly aware of his ragged dress, and with a naturalshame--a fear that charity might be extended to him from her--hemuttered an abrupt farewell to the operative, and without another glanceat the carriage, walked away. 

Before he had got many paces, the wife however came up to him, breathless. "Madame de Merville would speak to you, sir!" she said, withmore respect than she had hitherto thrown into her manner. Philip pausedan instant, and again strode on--

"It must be some mistake, " he said, hurriedly: "I have no right toexpect such an honour. "

He struck across the road, gained the opposite side, and had vanishedfrom Madame de Merville's eyes, before the woman regained the carriage. But still that calm, pale, and somewhat melancholy face, presenteditself before him; and as he walked again through the town, sweet andgentle fancies crowded confusedly on his heart. On that soft summer day, memorable for so many silent but mighty events in that inner life whichprepares the catastrophes of the outer one; as in the region, of whichVirgil has sung, the images of men to be born hereafter repose orglide--on that soft summer day, he felt he had reached the age whenYouth begins to clothe in some human shape its first vague ideal ofdesire and love. 

In such thoughts, and still wandering, the day wore away, till he foundhimself in one of the lanes that surround that glittering Microcosm ofthe vices, the frivolities, the hollow show, and the real beggary of thegay City--the gardens and the galleries of the Palais Royal. Surprisedat the lateness of the hour, it was then on the stroke of seven, hewas about to return homewards, when the loud voice of Gawtrey soundedbehind, and that personage, tapping him on the back, said, --

"Hollo, my young friend, well met! This will be a night of trial to you. Empty stomachs produce weak nerves. Come along! you must dine with me. A good dinner and a bottle of old wine--come! nonsense, I say you shallcome! Vive la joie!"

While speaking, he had linked his arm in Morton's, and hurried him onseveral paces in spite of his struggles; but just as the words Vive lajoie left his lips, he stood still and mute, as if a thunderbolt hadfallen at his feet; and Morton felt that heavy arm shiver and tremblelike a leaf. He looked up, and just at the entrance of that part of thePalais Royal in which are situated the restaurants of Verey and Vefour, he saw two men standing but a few paces before them, and gazing full onGawtrey and himself. 

"It is my evil genius, " muttered Gawtrey, grinding his teeth. 

"And mine!" said Morton. 

The younger of the two men thus apostrophised made a step towardsPhilip, when his companion drew him back and whispered, --"What are youabout--do you know that young man?"

"He is my cousin; Philip Beaufort's natural son!"

"Is he? then discard him for ever. He is with the most dangerous knavein Europe!"

As Lord Lilburne--for it was he--thus whispered his nephew, Gawtreystrode up to him; and, glaring full in his face, said in a deep andhollow tone, --"There is a hell, my lord, --I go to drink to our meeting!"Thus saying, he took off his hat with a ceremonious mockery, anddisappeared within the adjoining restaurant, kept by Vefour. 

"A hell!" said Lilburne, with his frigid smile; "the rogue's head runsupon gambling-houses!"

"And I have suffered Philip again to escape me, " said Arthur, inself-reproach: for while Gawtrey had addressed Lord Lilburne, Morton hadplunged back amidst the labyrinth of alleys. "How have I kept my oath?"

"Come! your guests must have arrived by this time. As for that wretchedyoung man, depend upon it that he is corrupted body and soul. "

"But he is my own cousin. "

"Pooh! there is no relationship in natural children: besides, he willfind you out fast enough. Ragged claimants are not long too proud tobeg. "

"You speak in earnest?" said Arthur, irresolutely. "Ay! trust myexperience of the world--Allons!"

And in a cabinet of the very restaurant, adjoining that in which thesolitary Gawtrey gorged his conscience, Lilburne, Arthur, and their gayfriends, soon forgetful of all but the roses of the moment, bathed theirairy spirits in the dews of the mirthful wine. Oh, extremes of life! Oh, Night! Oh, Morning!

CHAPTER IX. 

"Meantime a moving scene was open laid, That lazar house. "--THOMSON'SCastle of Indolence. 

It was near midnight. At the mouth of the lane in which Gawtrey residedthere stood four men. Not far distant, in the broad street at angleswith the lane, were heard the wheels of carriages and the sound ofmusic. A lady, fair in form, tender of heart, stainless in repute, wasreceiving her friends!

"Monsieur Favart, " said one of the men to the smallest of the four; "youunderstand the conditions--20, 000 francs and a free pardon?"

"Nothing more reasonable--it is understood. Still I confess that Ishould like to have my men close at hand. I am not given to fear; butthis is a dangerous experiment. "

"You knew the danger beforehand and subscribed to it: you must enteralone with me, or not at all. Mark you, the men are sworn to murder himwho betrays them. Not for twenty times 20, 000 francs would I have themknow me as the informer. My life were not worth a day's purchase. Now, if you feel secure in your disguise, all is safe. You will have seenthem at their work--you will recognise their persons--you can deposeagainst them at the trial--I shall have time to quit France. "

"Well, well! as you please. "

"Mind, you must wait in the vault with them till they separate. We haveso planted your men that whatever street each of the gang takes in goinghome, he can be seized quietly and at once. The bravest and craftiest ofall, who, though he has but just joined, is already their captain;--him, the man I told you of, who lives in the house, you must take after hisreturn, in his bed. It is the sixth story to the right, remember: hereis the key to his door. He is a giant in strength; and will never betaken alive if up and armed. "

"Ah, I comprehend!--Gilbert" (and Favart turned to one of his companionswho had not yet spoken) "take three men besides yourself, according tothe directions I gave you, --the porter will admit you, that's arranged. Make no noise. If I don't return by four o'clock, don't wait for me, but proceed at once. Look well to your primings. Take him alive, ifpossible--at the worst, dead. And now--anon ami--lead on!"

The traitor nodded, and walked slowly down the street. Favart, pausing, whispered hastily to the man whom he had called Gilbert, --

"Follow me close--get to the door of the cellar-place eight men withinhearing of my whistle--recollect the picklocks, the axes. If you hearthe whistle, break in; if not, I'm safe, and the first orders to seizethe captain in his room stand good. "

So saying, Favart strode after his guide. The door of a large, butill-favoured-looking house stood ajar--they entered-passed unmolestedthrough a court-yard--descended some stairs; the guide unlocked the doorof a cellar, and took a dark lantern from under his cloak. As he drewup the slide, the dim light gleamed on barrels and wine-casks, whichappeared to fill up the space. Rolling aside one of these, the guidelifted a trap-door, and lowered his lantern. "Enter, " said he; and thetwo men disappeared. 

 . .. .. .. . 

The coiners were at their work. A man, seated on a stool before a desk, was entering accounts in a large book. That man was William Gawtrey. While, with the rapid precision of honest mechanics, the machinery ofthe Dark Trade went on in its several departments. Apart--alone--atthe foot of a long table, sat Philip Morton. The truth had exceeded hisdarkest suspicions. He had consented to take the oath not to divulgewhat was to be given to his survey; and when, led into that vault, thebandage was taken from his eyes, it was some minutes before he couldfully comprehend the desperate and criminal occupations of the wildforms amidst which towered the burly stature of his benefactor. As thetruth slowly grew upon him, he shrank from the side of Gawtrey; but, deep compassion for his friend's degradation swallowing up the horror ofthe trade, he flung himself on one of the rude seats, and felt that thebond between them was indeed broken, and that the next morning he shouldbe again alone in the world. Still, as the obscene jests, the fearfuloaths, that from time to time rang through the vault, came on his ear, he cast his haughty eye in such disdain over the groups, that Gawtrey, observing him, trembled for his safety; and nothing but Philip's senseof his own impotence, and the brave, not timorous, desire not to perishby such hands, kept silent the fiery denunciations of a nature stillproud and honest, that quivered on his lips. All present were armed withpistols and cutlasses except Morton, who suffered the weapons presentedto him to lie unheeded on the table. 

"Courage, mes amis!" said Gawtrey, closing his book, --"Courage!--a fewmonths more, and we shall have made enough to retire upon, and enjoyourselves for the rest of the days. Where is Birnie?"

"Did he not tell you?" said one of the artisans, looking up. "He hasfound out the cleverest hand in France, the very fellow who helpedBouchard in all his five-franc pieces. He has promised to bring himto-night. "

"Ay, I remember, " returned Gawtrey, "he told me this morning, --he is afamous decoy!"

"I think so, indeed!" quoth a coiner; "for he caught you, the besthead to our hands that ever les industriels were blessed with--sacrefichtre!"

"Flatterer!" said Gawtrey, coming from the desk to the table, andpouring out wine from one of the bottles into a huge flagon--"To yourhealths!"

Here the door slided back, and Birnie glided in. 

"Where is your booty, mon brave?" said Gawtrey. "We only coin money; youcoin men, stamp with your own seal, and send them current to the devil!"

The coiners, who liked Birnie's ability (for the ci-devant engraver wasof admirable skill in their craft), but who hated his joyless manners, laughed at this taunt, which Birnie did not seem to heed, except by amalignant gleam of his dead eye. 

"If you mean the celebrated coiner, Jacques Giraumont, he waits without. You know our rules. I cannot admit him without leave. "

"Bon! we give it, --eh, messieurs?" said Gawtrey. "Ay-ay, " cried severalvoices. "He knows the oath, and will hear the penalty. "

"Yes, he knows the oath, " replied Birnie, and glided back. 

In a moment more he returned with a small man in a mechanic's blouse. The new comer wore the republican beard and moustache--of a sandygrey--his hair was the same colour; and a black patch over one eyeincreased the ill-favoured appearance of his features. 

"Diable! Monsieur Giraumont! but you are more like Vulcan than Adonis!"said Gawtrey. 

"I don't know anything about Vulcan, but I know how to make five-francpieces, " said Monsieur Giraumont, doggedly. 

"Are you poor?"

"As a church mouse! The only thing belonging to a church, since theBourbons came back, that is poor!"

At this sally, the coiners, who had gathered round the table, utteredthe shout with which, in all circumstances, Frenchmen receive a bon mot. 

"Humph!" said Gawtrey. "Who responds with his own life for yourfidelity?"

"I, " said Birnie. 

"Administer the oath to him. "

Suddenly four men advanced, seized the visitor, and bore him from thevault into another one within. After a few moments they returned. 

"He has taken the oath and heard the penalty. "

"Death to yourself, your wife, your son, and your grandson, if youbetray us!"

"I have neither son nor grandson; as for my wife, Monsieur le Capitaine, you offer a bribe instead of a threat when you talk of her death. "

"Sacre! but you will be an addition to our circle, mon brave!" saidGawtrey, laughing; while again the grim circle shouted applause. 

"But I suppose you care for your own life. "

"Otherwise I should have preferred starving to coming here, " answeredthe laconic neophyte. 

"I have done with you. Your health!"

On this the coiners gathered round Monsieur Giraumont, shook him by thehand, and commenced many questions with a view to ascertain his skill. 

"Show me your coinage first; I see you use both the die and thefurnace. Hem! this piece is not bad--you have struck it from an irondie?--right--it makes the impression sharper than plaster of Paris. Butyou take the poorest and the most dangerous part of the trade in takingthe home market. I can put you in a way to make ten times as much--andwith safety. Look at this!"--and Monsieur Giraumont took a forgedSpanish dollar from his pocket, so skilfully manufactured that theconnoisseurs were lost in admiration--"you may pass thousands of theseall over Europe, except France, and who is ever to detect you? But itwill require better machinery than you have here. "

Thus conversing, Monsieur Giraumont did not perceive that Mr. Gawtreyhad been examining him very curiously and minutely. But Birnie had notedtheir chief's attention, and once attempted to join his new ally, whenGawtrey laid his hand on his shoulder, and stopped him. 

"Do not speak to your friend till I bid you, or--" he stopped short, andtouched his pistols. 

Birnie grew a shade more pale, but replied with his usual sneer:

"Suspicious!--well, so much the better!" and seating himself carelesslyat the table, lighted his pipe. 

"And now, Monsieur Giraumont, " said Gawtrey, as he took the head ofthe table, "come to my right hand. A half-holiday in your honour. Clearthese infernal instruments; and more wine, mes amis!"

The party arranged themselves at the table. Among the desperate thereis almost invariably a tendency to mirth. A solitary ruffian, indeed, ismoody, but a gang of ruffians are jovial. The coiners talked and laughedloud. Mr. Birnie, from his dogged silence, seemed apart from the rest, though in the centre. For in a noisy circle a silent tongue builds awall round its owner. But that respectable personage kept his furtivewatch upon Giraumont and Gawtrey, who appeared talking together, veryamicably. The younger novice of that night, equally silent, seatedtowards the bottom of the table, was not less watchful than Birnie. Anuneasy, undefinable foreboding had come over him since the entranceof Monsieur Giraumont; this had been increased by the manner of Mr. Gawtrey. His faculty of observation, which was very acute, had detectedsomething false in the chief's blandness to their guest--somethingdangerous in the glittering eye that Gawtrey ever, as he spoke toGiraumont, bent on that person's lips as he listened to his reply. For, whenever William Gawtrey suspected a man, he watched not his eyes, buthis lips. 

Waked from his scornful reverie, a strange spell chained Morton'sattention to the chief and the guest, and he bent forward, with partedmouth and straining ear, to catch their conversation. 

"It seems to me a little strange, " said Mr. Gawtrey, raising his voiceso as to be heard by the party, "that a coiner so dexterous as MonsieurGiraumont should not be known to any of us except our friend Birnie. "

"Not at all, " replied Giraumont; "I worked only with Bouchard andtwo others since sent to the galleys. We were but a smallfraternity--everything has its commencement. "

"C'est juste: buvez, donc, cher ami!"

The wine circulated. Gawtrey began again:

"You have had a bad accident, seemingly, Monsieur Giraumont. How did youlose your eye?"

"In a scuffle with the gens d' armes the night Bouchard was taken and Iescaped. Such misfortunes are on the cards. "

"C'est juste: buvez, donc, Monsieur Giraumont!"

Again there was a pause, and again Gawtrey's deep voice was heard. 

"You wear a wig, I think, Monsieur Giraumont? To judge by your eyelashesyour own hair has been a handsomer colour. "

"We seek disguise, not beauty, my host; and the police have sharp eyes. "

"C'est juste: buvez, donc-vieux Renard! When did we two meet last?"

"Never, that I know of. "

"Ce n'est pas vrai! buvez, donc, MONSIEUR FAVART!"

At the sound of that name the company started in dismay and confusion, and the police officer, forgetting himself for the moment, sprang fromhis seat, and put his right hand into his blouse. 

"Ho, there!--treason!" cried Gawtrey, in a voice of thunder; and hecaught the unhappy man by the throat. It was the work of a moment. Morton, where he sat, beheld a struggle--he heard a death-cry. Hesaw the huge form of the master-coiner rising above all the rest, ascutlasses gleamed and eyes sparkled round. He saw the quivering andpowerless frame of the unhappy guest raised aloft in those mighty arms, and presently it was hurled along the table-bottles crashing--the boardshaking beneath its weight--and lay before the very eyes of Morton, adistorted and lifeless mass. At the same instant Gawtrey sprang upon thetable, his black frown singling out from the group the ashen, cadaverousface of the shrinking traitor. Birnie had darted from the table--he washalf-way towards the sliding door--his face, turned over his shoulder, met the eyes of the chief. 

"Devil!" shouted Gawtrey, in his terrible voice, which the echoes of thevault gave back from side to side. "Did I not give thee up my soul thatthou mightest not compass my death? Hark ye! thus die my slavery andall our secrets!" The explosion of his pistol half swallowed up the lastword, and with a single groan the traitor fell on the floor, piercedthrough the brain--then there was a dead and grim hush as the smokerolled slowly along the roof of the dreary vault. 

Morton sank back on his seat, and covered his face with his hands. Thelast seal on the fate of THE MAN OF CRIME was set; the last wave in theterrible and mysterious tide of his destiny had dashed on his soulto the shore whence there is no return. Vain, now and henceforth, thehumour, the sentiment, the kindly impulse, the social instincts whichhad invested that stalwart shape with dangerous fascination, which hadimplied the hope of ultimate repentance, of redemption even in thisworld. The HOUR and the CIRCUMSTANCE had seized their prey; and theself-defence, which a lawless career rendered a necessity, left theeternal die of blood upon his doom!

"Friends, I have saved you, " said Gawtrey, slowly gazing on the corpseof his second victim, while he turned the pistol to his belt. "I havenot quailed before this man's eye" (and he spurned the clay of theofficer as he spoke with a revengeful scorn) "without treasuring upits aspect in my heart of hearts. I knew him when he entered--knew himthrough his disguise--yet, faith, it was a clever one! Turn up his faceand gaze on him now; he will never terrify us again, unless there betruth in ghosts!"

Murmuring and tremulous the coiners scrambled on the table and examinedthe dead man. From this task Gawtrey interrupted them, for his quick eyedetected, with the pistols under the policeman's blouse, a whistle ofmetal of curious construction, and he conjectured at once that dangerwas at hand. 

"I have saved you, I say, but only for the hour. This deed cannot sleep. See, he had help within call! The police knew where to look for theircomrade--we are dispersed. Each for himself. Quick, divide the spoils!Sauve qui peat!"

Then Morton heard where he sat, his hands still clasped before his face, a confused hubbub of voices, the jingle of money, the scrambling offeet, the creaking of doors. All was silent!

A strong grasp drew his hands from his eyes. 

"Your first scene of life against life, " said Gawtrey's voice, whichseemed fearfully changed to the ear that beard it. "Bah! what would youthink of a battle? Come to our eyrie: the carcasses are gone. "

Morton looked fearfully round the vault. He and Gawtrey were alone. Hiseyes sought the places where the dead had lain--they were removed--novestige of the deeds, not even a drop of blood. 

"Come, take up your cutlass, come!" repeated the voice of the chief, aswith his dim lantern--now the sole light of the vault--he stood in theshadow of the doorway. 

Morton rose, took up the weapon mechanically, and followed that terribleguide, mute and unconscious, as a Soul follows a Dream through the Houseof Sleep!

CHAPTER X. 

 "Sleep no more!"--Macbeth

After winding through gloomy and labyrinthine passages, which conductedto a different range of cellars from those entered by the unfortunateFavart, Gawtrey emerged at the foot of a flight of stairs, which, dark, narrow, and in many places broken, had been probably appropriated toservants of the house in its days of palmier glory. By these steps thepair regained their attic. Gawtrey placed the lantern on the table andseated himself in silence. Morton, who had recovered his self-possessionand formed his resolution, gazed on him for some moments, equallytaciturn. At length he spoke:

"Gawtrey!"

"I bade you not call me by that name, " said the coiner; for we needscarcely say that in his new trade he had assumed a new appellation. 

"It is the least guilty one by which I have known you, " returned Morton, firmly. "It is for the last time I call you by it! I demanded to see bywhat means one to whom I had entrusted my fate supported himself. I haveseen, " continued the young man, still firmly, but with a livid cheek andlip, "and the tie between us is rent for ever. Interrupt me not! it isnot for me to blame you. I have eaten of your bread and drunk of yourcup. Confiding in you too blindly, and believing that you were atleast free from those dark and terrible crimes for which there is noexpiation--at least in this life--my conscience seared by distress, myvery soul made dormant by despair, I surrendered myself to one leading acareer equivocal, suspicious, dishonourable perhaps, but still not, asI believed, of atrocity and bloodshed. I wake at the brink of theabyss--my mother's hand beckons to me from the grave; I think I hear hervoice while I address you--I recede while it is yet time--we part, andfor ever!"

Gawtrey, whose stormy passion was still deep upon his soul, had listenedhitherto in sullen and dogged silence, with a gloomy frown on hisknitted brow; he now rose with an oath--

"Part! that I may let loose on the world a new traitor! Part! when youhave seen me fresh from an act that, once whispered, gives me to theguillotine! Part--never! at least alive!"

"I have said it, " said Morton, folding his arms calmly; "I say it toyour face, though I might part from you in secret. Frown not on me, manof blood! I am fearless as yourself! In another minute I am gone. "

"Ah! is it so?" said Gawtrey; and glancing round the room, whichcontained two doors, the one concealed by the draperies of a bed, communicating with the stairs by which they had entered, the other withthe landing of the principal and common flight: he turned to the former, within his reach, which he locked, and put the key into his pocket, andthen, throwing across the latter a heavy swing bar, which fell intoits socket with a harsh noise, --before the threshold he placed his vastbulk, and burst into his loud, fierce laugh: "Ho! ho! Slave and fool, once mine, you were mine body and soul for ever!"

"Tempter, I defy you! stand back!" And, firm and dauntless, Morton laidhis hand on the giant's vest. 

Gawtrey seemed more astonished than enraged. He looked hard at hisdaring associate, on whose lip the down was yet scarcely dark. 

"Boy, " said he, "off! do not rouse the devil in me again! I could crushyou with a hug. "

"My soul supports my body, and I am armed, " said Morton, laying hand onhis cutlass. "But you dare not harm me, nor I you; bloodstained as youare, you gave me shelter and bread; but accuse me not that I will savemy soul while it is yet time!--Shall my mother have blessed me in vainupon her death-bed?"

Gawtrey drew back, and Morton, by a sudden impulse, grasped his hand. 

"Oh! hear me-hear me!" he cried, with great emotion. "Abandon thishorrible career; you have been decoyed and betrayed to it by one who candeceive or terrify you no more! Abandon it, and I will never desert you. For her sake--for your Fanny's sake--pause, like me, before the gulfswallow us. Let us fly!--far to the New World--to any land where ourthews and sinews, our stout hands and hearts, can find an honest mart. Men, desperate as we are, have yet risen by honest means. Take her, yourorphan, with us. We will work for her, both of us. Gawtrey! hear me. Itis not my voice that speaks to you--it is your good angel's!"

Gawtrey fell back against the wall, and his chest heaved. 

"Morton, " he said, with choked and tremulous accent, "go now; leave meto my fate! I have sinned against you--shamefully sinned. It seemed tome so sweet to have a friend; in your youth and character of mind therewas so much about which the tough strings of my heart wound themselves, that I could not bear to lose you--to suffer you to know me for what Iwas. I blinded--I deceived you as to my past deeds; that was base in me:but I swore to my own heart to keep you unexposed to every danger, andfree from every vice that darkened my own path. I kept that oath tillthis night, when, seeing that you began to recoil from me, and dreadingthat you should desert me, I thought to bind you to me for ever byimplicating you in this fellowship of crime. I am punished, and justly. Go, I repeat--leave me to the fate that strides nearer and nearer to meday by day. You are a boy still--I am no longer young. Habit is a secondnature. Still--still I could repent--I could begin life again. Butrepose!--to look back--to remember--to be haunted night and day withdeeds that shall meet me bodily and face to face on the last day--"

"Add not to the spectres! Come--fly this night--this hour!"

Gawtrey paused, irresolute and wavering, when at that moment he heardsteps on the stairs below. He started--as starts the boar caught in hislair--and listened, pale and breathless. 

"Hush!--they are on us!--they come!" as he whispered, the key fromwithout turned in the wards--the door shook. "Soft! the bar preserves usboth--this way. " And the coiner crept to the door of the private stairs. He unlocked and opened it cautiously. A man sprang through the aperture:

"Yield!--you are my prisoner!"

"Never!" cried Gawtrey, hurling back the intruder, and clapping to thedoor, though other and stout men were pressing against it with all theirpower. 

"Ho! ho! Who shall open the tiger's cage?"

At both doors now were heard the sound of voices. "Open in the king'sname, or expect no mercy!"

"Hist!" said Gawtrey. "One way yet--the window--the rope. "

Morton opened the casement--Gawtrey uncoiled the rope. The dawn wasbreaking; it was light in the streets, but all seemed quiet without. The doors reeled and shook beneath the pressure of the pursuers. Gawtreyflung the rope across the street to the opposite parapet; after two orthree efforts, the grappling-hook caught firm hold--the perilous pathwas made. 

"On!--quick!--loiter not!" whispered Gawtrey; "you are active--it seemsmore dangerous than it is--cling with both hands-shut your eyes. When onthe other side--you see the window of Birnie's room, --enter it--descendthe stairs--let yourself out, and you are safe. "

"Go first, " said Morton, in the same tone: "I will not leave you now:you will be longer getting across than I shall. I will keep guard tillyou are over. "

"Hark! hark!--are you mad? You keep guard! what is your strength tomine? Twenty men shall not move that door, while my weight is againstit. Quick, or you destroy us both! Besides, you will hold the rope forme, it may not be strong enough for my bulk in itself. Stay!--stay onemoment. If you escape, and I fall--Fanny--my father, he will take careof her, --you remember--thanks! Forgive me all! Go; that's right!"

With a firm impulse, Morton threw himself on the dreadful bridge; itswung and crackled at his weight. Shifting his grasp rapidly--holdinghis breath--with set teeth-with closed eyes--he moved on--he gained theparapet--he stood safe on the opposite side. And now, straining his eyesacross, he saw through the open casement into the chamber he had justquitted. Gawtrey was still standing against the door to the principalstaircase, for that of the two was the weaker and the more assailed. Presently the explosion of a fire-arm was heard; they had shot throughthe panel. Gawtrey seemed wounded, for he staggered forward, and uttereda fierce cry; a moment more, and he gained the window--he seized therope--he hung over the tremendous depth! Morton knelt by the parapet, holding the grappling-hook in its place, with convulsive grasp, andfixing his eyes, bloodshot with fear and suspense, on the huge bulk thatclung for life to that slender cord!

"Le voiles! Le voiles!" cried a voice from the opposite side. Mortonraised his gaze from Gawtrey; the casement was darkened by the forms ofhis pursuers--they had burst into the room--an officer sprang upon theparapet, and Gawtrey, now aware of his danger, opened his eyes, and ashe moved on, glared upon the foe. The policeman deliberately raised hispistol--Gawtrey arrested himself--from a wound in his side the bloodtrickled slowly and darkly down, drop by drop, upon the stonesbelow; even the officers of law shuddered as they eyed him--his hairbristling--his cheek white--his lips drawn convulsively from his teeth, and his eyes glaring from beneath the frown of agony and menace in whichyet spoke the indomitable power and fierceness of the man. His look, sofixed--so intense--so stern, awed the policeman; his hand trembled ashe fired, and the ball struck the parapet an inch below the spot whereMorton knelt. An indistinct, wild, gurgling sound-half-laugh, half-yellof scorn and glee, broke from Gawtrey's lips. He swung himselfon--near--near--nearer--a yard from the parapet. 

"You are saved!" cried Morton; when at the moment a volley burst fromthe fatal casement--the smoke rolled over both the fugitives--a groan, or rather howl, of rage, and despair, and agony, appalled even thehardest on whose ear it came. Morton sprang to his feet and lookedbelow. He saw on the rugged stones far down, a dark, formless, motionless mass--the strong man of passion and levity--the giant who hadplayed with life and soul, as an infant with the baubles that it prizesand breaks--was what the Caesar and the leper alike are, when the clayis without God's breath--what glory, genius, power, and beauty, would befor ever and for ever, if there were no God!

"There is another!" cried the voice of one of the pursuers. "Fire!"

"Poor Gawtrey!" muttered Philip. "I will fulfil your last wish;" andscarcely conscious of the bullet that whistled by him, he disappearedbehind the parapet. 

CHAPTER XI. 

 "Gently moved By the soft wind of whispering silks. "--DECKER. 

The reader may remember that while Monsieur Favart and Mr. Birnie wereholding commune in the lane, the sounds of festivity were heard from ahouse in the adjoining street. To that house we are now summoned. 

At Paris, the gaieties of balls, or soirees, are, I believe, very rarein that period of the year in which they are most frequent in London. The entertainment now given was in honour of a christening; the lady whogave it, a relation of the new-born. 

Madame de Merville was a young widow; even before her marriage she hadbeen distinguished in literature; she had written poems of more thancommon excellence; and being handsome, of good family, and largefortune, her talents made her an object of more interest than they mightotherwise have done. Her poetry showed great sensibility and tenderness. If poetry be any index to the heart, you would have thought her oneto love truly and deeply. Nevertheless, since she married--as girls inFrance do--not to please herself, but her parents, she made a mariage deconvenance. Monsieur de Merville was a sober, sensible man, past middleage. Not being fond of poetry, and by no means coveting a professionalauthor for his wife, he had during their union, which lasted four years, discouraged his wife's liaison with Apollo. But her mind, active andardent, did not the less prey upon itself. At the age of four-and-twentyshe became a widow, with an income large even in England for a singlewoman, and at Paris constituting no ordinary fortune. Madame deMerville, however, though a person of elegant taste, was neitherostentatious nor selfish; she had no children, and she lived quietly inapartments, handsome, indeed, but not more than adequate to the smallestablishment which--where, as on the Continent, the costly convenienceof an entire house is not usually incurred--sufficed for her retinue. She devoted at least half her income, which was entirely at her owndisposal, partly to the aid of her own relations, who were not rich, andpartly to the encouragement of the literature she cultivated. Althoughshe shrank from the ordeal of publication, her poems and sketches ofromance were read to her own friends, and possessed an eloquence seldomaccompanied with so much modesty. Thus, her reputation, though not blownabout the winds, was high in her own circle, and her position in fashionand in fortune made her looked up to by her relations as the head of herfamily; they regarded her as femme superieure, and her advice with themwas equivalent to a command. Eugenie de Merville was a strange mixtureof qualities at once feminine and masculine. On the one hand, she hada strong will, independent views, some contempt for the world, andfollowed her own inclinations without servility to the opinion ofothers; on the other hand, she was susceptible, romantic, of asweet, affectionate, kind disposition. Her visit to M. Love, howeverindiscreet, was not less in accordance with her character than hercharity to the mechanic's wife; masculine and careless where aneccentric thing was to be done--curiosity satisfied, or some object infemale diplomacy achieved--womanly, delicate, and gentle, the instanther benevolence was appealed to or her heart touched. She had now beenthree years a widow, and was consequently at the age of twenty-seven. Despite the tenderness of her poetry and her character, her reputationwas unblemished. She had never been in love. People who are muchoccupied do not fall in love easily; besides, Madame de Mervillewas refining, exacting, and wished to find heroes where she only methandsome dandies or ugly authors. Moreover, Eugenie was both a vain anda proud person--vain of her celebrity and proud of her birth. She wasone whose goodness of heart made her always active in promoting thehappiness of others. She was not only generous and charitable, butwilling to serve people by good offices as well as money. Everybodyloved her. The new-born infant, to whose addition to the Christiancommunity the fete of this night was dedicated, was the pledge of aunion which Madame de Merville had managed to effect between two youngpersons, first cousins to each other, and related to herself. There hadbeen scruples of parents to remove--money matters to adjust--Eugenie hadsmoothed all. The husband and wife, still lovers, looked up to her asthe author, under Heaven, of their happiness. 

The gala of that night had been, therefore, of a nature more thanusually pleasurable, and the mirth did not sound hollow, but wrung fromthe heart. Yet, as Eugenie from time to time contemplated the youngpeople, whose eyes ever sought each other--so fair, so tender, and sojoyous as they seemed--a melancholy shadow darkened her brow, and shesighed involuntarily. Once the young wife, Madame d'Anville, approachingher timidly, said:

"Ah! my sweet cousin, when shall we see you as happy as ourselves? Thereis such happiness, " she added, innocently, and with a blush, "in beinga mother!--that little life all one's own--it is something to think ofevery hour!"

"Perhaps, " said Eugenie, smiling, and seeking to turn the conversationfrom a subject that touched too nearly upon feelings and thoughts herpride did not wish to reveal--"perhaps it is you, then, who have madeour cousin, poor Monsieur de Vaudemont, so determined to marry? Pray, be more cautious with him. How difficult I have found it to prevent hisbringing into our family some one to make us all ridiculous!"

"True, " said Madame d'Anville, laughing. "But then, the Vicomte is sopoor, and in debt. He would fall in love, not with the demoiselle, butthe dower. A propos of that, how cleverly you took advantage of hisboastful confession to break off his liaisons with that bureau demariage. "

"Yes; I congratulate myself on that manoeuvre. Unpleasant as it was togo to such a place (for, of course, I could not send for Monsieur Lovehere), it would have been still more unpleasant to have received sucha Madame de Vaudemont as our cousin would have presented to us. Onlythink--he was the rival of an epicier! I heard that there was somecurious denouement to the farce of that establishment; but I could neverget from Vaudemont the particulars. He was ashamed of them, I fancy. "

"What droll professions there are in Paris!" said Madame d'Anville. "Asif people could not marry without going to an office for a spouse as wego for a servant! And so the establishment is broken up? And you neveragain saw that dark, wild-looking boy who so struck your fancy that youhave taken him as the original for the Murillo sketch of the youth inthat charming tale you read to us the other evening? Ah! cousin, Ithink you were a little taken with him. The bureau de mariage had itsallurements for you as well as for our poor cousin!" The young mothersaid this laughingly and carelessly. 

"Pooh!" returned Madame de Merville, laughing also; but a slight blushbroke over her natural paleness. "But a propos of the Vicomte. Youknow how cruelly he has behaved to that poor boy of his by his Englishwife--never seen him since he was an infant--kept him at some school inEngland; and all because his vanity does not like the world to know thathe has a son of nineteen! Well, I have induced him to recall this pooryouth. "

"Indeed! and how?"

"Why, " said Eugenie, with a smile, "he wanted a loan, poor man, and Icould therefore impose conditions by way of interest. But I also managedto conciliate him to the proposition, by representing that, if the youngman were good-looking, he might, himself, with our connections, &c. , form an advantageous marriage; and that in such a case, if the fathertreated him now justly and kindly, he would naturally partake with thefather whatever benefits the marriage might confer. "

"Ah! you are an excellent diplomatist, Eugenie; and you turn people'sheads by always acting from your heart. Hush! here comes the Vicomte!"

"A delightful ball, " said Monsieur de Vaudemont, approaching thehostess. "Pray, has that young lady yonder, in the pink dress, anyfortune? She is pretty--eh? You observe she is looking at me--I mean atus!"

"My dear cousin, what a compliment you pay to marriage! You have had twowives, and you are ever on the qui vive for a third!"

"What would you have me do?--we cannot resist the overtures of yourbewitching sex. Hum--what fortune has she?"

"Not a sou; besides, she is engaged. "

"Oh! now I look at her, she is not pretty--not at all. I made a mistake. I did not mean her; I meant the young lady in blue. "

"Worse and worse--she is married already. Shall I present you?"

"Ah, Monsieur de Vaudemont, " said Madame d'Anville; "have you found outa new bureau de mariage?"

The Vicomte pretended not to hear that question. But, turning toEugenie, took her aside, and said, with an air in which he endeavouredto throw a great deal of sorrow, "You know, my dear cousin, that, tooblige you, I consented to send for my son, though, as I always said, it is very unpleasant for a man like me, in the prime of life, to hawkabout a great boy of nineteen or twenty. People soon say, 'Old Vaudemontand younq Vaudemont. ' However, a father's feelings are never appealed toin vain. " (Here the Vicomte put his handkerchief to his eyes, and aftera pause, continued, )--"I sent for him--I even went to your old bonne, Madame Dufour, to make a bargain for her lodgings, and this day--guessmy grief--I received a letter sealed with black. My son is dead!--asudden fever--it is shocking!"

"Horrible! dead!--your own son, whom you hardly ever saw--never since hewas an Infant!"

"Yes, that softens the blow very much. And now you see I must marry. Ifthe boy had been good-looking, and like me, and so forth, why, as youobserved, he might have made a good match, and allowed me a certain sum, or we could have all lived together. "

"And your son is dead, and you come to a ball!"

"Je suis philosophe, " said the Vicomte, shrugging his shoulders. "And, as you say, I never saw him. It saves me seven hundred francs a-year. Don't say a word to any one--I sha'n't give out that he is dead, poorfellow! Pray be discreet: you see there are some ill-natured people whomight think it odd I do not shut myself up. I can wait till Paris isquite empty. It would be a pity to lose any opportunity at present, fornow, you see, I must marry!" And the philosophe sauntered away. 

CHAPTER XII. 

 GUIOMAR. "Those devotions I am to pay Are written in my heart, not in this book. "

 Enter RUTILIO. "I am pursued--all the ports are stopped too, Not any hope to escape--behind, before me, On either side, I am beset. " BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER, The Custom of the Country

The party were just gone--it was already the peep of day--the wheels ofthe last carriage had died in the distance. 

Madame de Merville had dismissed her woman, and was seated in her ownroom, leaning her head musingly on her hand. 

Beside her was the table that held her MSS. And a few books, amidstwhich were scattered vases of flowers. On a pedestal beneath the windowwas placed a marble bust of Dante. Through the open door were seen inperspective two rooms just deserted by her guests; the lights stillburned in the chandeliers and girandoles, contending with the daylightthat came through the half-closed curtains. The person of the inmate wasin harmony with the apartment. It was characterised by a certain gracewhich, for want of a better epithet, writers are prone to call classicalor antique. Her complexion, seeming paler than usual by that light, wasyet soft and delicate--the features well cut, but small and womanly. About the face there was that rarest of all charms, the combination ofintellect with sweetness; the eyes, of a dark blue, were thoughtful, perhaps melancholy, in their expression; but the long dark lashes, andthe shape of the eyes, themselves more long than full, gave to theirintelligence a softness approaching to languor, increased, perhaps, bythat slight shadow round and below the orbs which is common with thosewho have tasked too much either the mind or the heart. The contour ofthe face, without being sharp or angular, had yet lost a little ofthe roundness of earlier youth; and the hand on which she leaned was, perhaps, even too white, too delicate, for the beauty which belongs tohealth; but the throat and bust were of exquisite symmetry. 

"I am not happy, " murmured Eugenie to herself; "yet I scarce know why. Is it really, as we women of romance have said till the saying is wornthreadbare, that the destiny of women is not fame but love. Strange, then, that while I have so often pictured what love should be, I havenever felt it. And now, --and now, " she continued, half rising, andwith a natural pang--"now I am no longer in my first youth. If I loved, should I be loved again? How happy the young pair seemed--they are neveralone!"

At this moment, at a distance, was heard the report of fire-arms--again!Eugenie started, and called to her servant, who, with one of thewaiters hired for the night, was engaged in removing, and nibbling as heremoved, the re mains of the feast. "What is that, at this hour?--openthe window and look out!"

"I can see nothing, madame. "

"Again--that is the third time. Go into the street and look--some onemust be in danger. "

The servant and the waiter, both curious, and not willing to partcompany, ran down the stairs, and thence into the street. 

Meanwhile, Morton, after vainly attempting Birnie's window, which thetraitor had previously locked and barred against the escape of hisintended victim, crept rapidly along the roof, screened by the parapetnot only from the shot but the sight of the foe. But just as he gainedthe point at which the lane made an angle with the broad street itadjoined, he cast his eyes over the parapet, and perceived that oneof the officers had ventured himself to the fearful bridge; he waspursued--detection and capture seemed inevitable. He paused, andbreathed hard. He, once the heir to such fortunes, the darling of suchaffections!--he, the hunted accomplice of a gang of miscreants! That wasthe thought that paralysed--the disgrace, not the danger. But he was inadvance of the pursuer--he hastened on--he turned the angle--he heard ashout behind from the opposite side--the officer had passed the bridge:"it is but one man as yet, " thought he, and his nostrils dilated and hishands clenched as he glided on, glancing at each casement as he passed. 

Now as youth and vigour thus struggled against Law for life, near athand Death was busy with toil and disease. In a miserable grabat, or garret, a mechanic, yet young, and stricken by a lingering maladycontracted by the labour of his occupation, was slowly passing from thatworld which had frowned on his cradle, and relaxed not the gloom of itsaspect to comfort his bed of Death. Now this man had married for love, and his wife had loved him; and it was the cares of that early marriagewhich had consumed him to the bone. But extreme want, if long continued, eats up love when it has nothing else to eat. And when people are verylong dying, the people they fret and trouble begin to think of that toooften hypocritical prettiness of phrase called "a happy release. " So theworn-out and half-famished wife did not care three straws for the dyinghusband, whom a year or two ago she had vowed to love and cherish insickness and in health. But still she seemed to care, for she moaned, and pined, and wept, as the man's breath grew fainter and fainter. 

"Ah, Jean!" said she, sobbing, "what will become of me, a poor lonewidow, with nobody to work for my bread?" And with that thought she tookon worse than before. 

"I am stifling, " said the dying man, rolling round his ghastly eyes. "How hot it is! Open the window; I should like to see the light-daylightonce again. "

"Mon Dieu! what whims he has, poor man!" muttered the woman, withoutstirring. 

The poor wretch put out his skeleton hand and clutched his wife's arm. 

"I sha'n't trouble you long, Marie! Air--air!"

"Jean, you will make yourself worse--besides, I shall catch my death ofcold. I have scarce a rag on, but I will just open the door. "

"Pardon me, " groaned the sufferer; "leave me, then. " Poor fellow!perhaps at that moment the thought of unkindness was sharper than thesharp cough which brought blood at every paroxysm. He did not like herso near him, but he did not blame her. Again, I say, --poor fellow! Thewoman opened the door, went to the other side of the room, and sat downon an old box and began darning an old neck-handkerchief. The silencewas soon broken by the moans of the fast-dying man, and again hemuttered, as he tossed to and fro, with baked white lips:

"Je m'etoufee!--Air!"

There was no resisting that prayer, it seemed so like the last. The wifelaid down the needle, put the handkerchief round her throat, and openedthe window. 

"Do you feel easier now?"

"Bless you, Marie--yes; that's good--good. It puts me in mind of olddays, that breath of air, before we came to Paris. I wish I could workfor you now, Marie. "

"Jean! my poor Jean!" said the woman, and the words and the voice tookback her hardening heart to the fresh fields and tender thoughts of thepast time. And she walked up to the bed, and he leaned his temples, dampwith livid dews, upon her breast. 

"I have been a sad burden to you, Marie; we should not have married sosoon; but I thought I was stronger. Don't cry; we have no little ones, thank God. It will be much better for you when I am gone. "

And so, word after word gasped out--he stopped suddenly, and seemed tofall asleep. 

The wife then attempted gently to lay him once more on his pillow--thehead fell back heavily--the jaw had dropped--the teeth were set--theeyes were open and like the stone--the truth broke on her!

"Jean--Jean! My God, he is dead! and I was unkind to him at the last!"With these words she fell upon the corpse, happily herself insensible. 

Just at that moment a human face peered in at the window. Through thataperture, after a moment's pause, a young man leaped lightly into theroom. He looked round with a hurried glance, but scarcely noticed theforms stretched on the pallet. It was enough for him that they seemedto sleep, and saw him not. He stole across the room, the door of whichMarie had left open, and descended the stairs. He had almost gainedthe courtyard into which the stairs had conducted, when he heard voicesbelow by the porter's lodge. 

"The police have discovered a gang of coiners!"

"Coiners!"

"Yes, one has been shot dead! I have seen his body in the kennel;another has fled along the roofs--a desperate fellow! We were to watchfor him. Let us go up-stairs and get on the roof and look out. "

By the hum of approval that followed this proposition, Morton judgedrightly that it had been addressed to several persons whom curiosityand the explosion of the pistols had drawn from their beds, and who weregrouped round the porter's lodge. What was to be done?--to advance wasimpossible: and was there yet time to retreat?--it was at least the onlycourse left him; he sprang back up the stairs; he had just gained thefirst flight when he heard steps descending; then, suddenly, it flashedacross him that he had left open the window above--that, doubtless, bythat imprudent oversight the officer in pursuit had detected a clueto the path he had taken. What was to be done?--die as Gawtrey haddone!--death rather than the galleys. As he thus resolved, he saw to theright the open door of an apartment in which lights still glimmeredin their sockets. It seemed deserted--he entered boldly and at once, closing the door after him. Wines and viands still left on the table;gilded mirrors, reflecting the stern face of the solitary intruder;here and there an artificial flower, a knot of riband on the floor, allbetokening the gaieties and graces of luxurious life--the dance, therevel, the feast--all this in one apartment!--above, in the same house, the pallet--the corpse--the widow--famine and woe! Such is a great city!such, above all, is Paris! where, under the same roof, are gathered suchantagonist varieties of the social state! Nothing strange in this; itis strange and sad that so little do people thus neighbours know of eachother, that the owner of those rooms had a heart soft to every distress, but she did not know the distress so close at hand. The music that hadcharmed her guests had mounted gaily to the vexed ears of agony andhunger. Morton passed the first room--a second--he came to a third, and Eugenie de Merville, looking up at that instant, saw before heran apparition that might well have alarmed the boldest. His head wasuncovered--his dark hair shadowed in wild and disorderly profusion thepale face and features, beautiful indeed, but at that moment of thebeauty which an artist would impart to a young gladiator--stampedwith defiance, menace, and despair. The disordered garb--the fierceaspect--the dark eyes, that literally shone through the shadows of theroom-all conspired to increase the terror of so abrupt a presence. 

"What are you?--What do you seek here?" said she, falteringly, placingher hand on the bell as she spoke. Upon that soft hand Morton laid hisown. 

"I seek my life! I am pursued! I am at your mercy! I am innocent! Canyou save me?"

As he spoke, the door of the outer room beyond was heard to open, andsteps and voices were at hand. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed, recoiling as he recognised her face. "And is it toyou that I have fled?"

Eugenie also recognised the stranger; and there was something in theirrelative positions--the suppliant, the protectress--that excited bothher imagination and her pity. A slight colour mantled to her cheeks--herlook was gentle and compassionate. 

"Poor boy! so young!" she said. "Hush!"

She withdrew her hand from his, retired a few steps, lifted a curtaindrawn across a recess--and pointing to an alcove that contained one ofthose sofa-beds common in French houses, added in a whisper, --

"Enter--you are saved. "

Morton obeyed, and Eugenie replaced the curtain. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

 GUIOMAR. "Speak! What are you?"

 RUTILIO. "Gracious woman, hear me. I am a stranger: And in that I answer all your demands. " Custom of the Country. 

Eugenie replaced the curtain. And scarcely had she done so ere the stepsin the outer room entered the chamber where she stood. Her servant wasaccompanied by two officers of the police. 

"Pardon, madame, " said one of the latter; "but we are in pursuit ofa criminal. We think he must have entered this house through a windowabove while your servant was in the street. Permit us to search?"

"Without doubt, " answered Eugenie, seating herself. "If he has entered, look in the other apartments. I have not quitted this room. "

"You are right. Accept our apologies. "

And the officers turned back to examine every corner where the fugitivewas not. For in that, the scouts of Justice resembled their mistress:when does man's justice look to the right place?

The servant lingered to repeat the tale he had heard--the sight he hadseen. When, at that instant, he saw the curtain of the alcove slightlystirred. He uttered an exclamation-sprung to the bed--his hand touchedthe curtain--Eugenie seized his arm. She did not speak; but as he turnedhis eyes to her, astonished, he saw that she trembled, and that hercheek was as white as marble. 

"Madame, " he said, hesitating, "there is some one hid in the recess. "

"There is! Be silent!"

A suspicion flashed across the servant's mind. The pure, the proud, theimmaculate Eugenie!

"There is!--and in madame's chamber!" he faltered unconsciously. 

Eugenie's quick apprehensions seized the foul thought. Her eyesflashed--her cheek crimsoned. But her lofty and generous natureconquered even the indignant and scornful burst that rushed to her lips. The truth!--could she trust the man? A doubt--and the charge of thehuman life rendered to her might be betrayed. Her colour fell--tearsgushed to her eyes. 

"I have been kind to you, Francois. Not a word. "

"Madame confides in me--it is enough, " said the Frenchman, bowing, witha slight smile on his lips; and he drew back respectfully. 

One of the police officers re-entered. 

"We have done, madame; he is not here. Aha! that curtain!"

"It is madame's bed, " said Francois. "But I have looked behind. "

"I am most sorry to have disarranged you, " said the policeman, satisfiedwith the answer; "but we shall have him yet. " And he retired. 

The last footsteps died away, the last door of the apartments closedbehind the officers, and Eugenie and her servant stood alone gazing oneach other. 

"You may retire, " said she at last; and taking her purse from the table, she placed it in his hands. 

The man took it, with a significant look. "Madame may depend on mydiscretion. "

Eugenie was alone again. Those words rang in her ear, --Eugenie deMerville dependent on the discretion of her lackey! She sunk into herchair, and, her excitement succeeded by exhaustion, leaned her face onher hands, and burst into tears. She was aroused by a low voice; shelooked up, and the young man was kneeling at her feet. 

"Go--go!" she said: "I have done for you all I can. "

"You heard--you heard--my own hireling, too! At the hazard of my owngood name you are saved. Go!"

"Of your good name!"--for Eugenie forgot that it was looks, not words, that had so wrung her pride--"Your good name, " he repeated: andglancing round the room--the toilette, the curtain, the recess he hadquitted--all that bespoke that chastest sanctuary of a chaste woman, which for a stranger to enter is, as it were, to profane--her meaningbroke on him. "Your good name--your hireling! No, madame, --no!" Andas he spoke, he rose to his feet. "Not for me, that sacrifice! Yourhumanity shall not cost you so dear. Ho, there! I am the man you seek. "And he strode to the door. 

Eugenie was penetrated with the answer. She sprung to him--she graspedhis garments. 

"Hush! hush!--for mercy's sake! What would you do? Think you I couldever be happy again, if the confidence you placed in me were betrayed?Be calm--be still. I knew not what I said. It will be easy to undeceivethe man--later--when you are saved. And you are innocent, --are you not?"

"Oh, madame, " said Morton, "from my soul I say it, I am innocent--not ofpoverty--wretchedness--error--shame; I am innocent of crime. May Heavenbless you!"

And as he reverently kissed the hand laid on his arm, there wassomething in his voice so touching, in his manner something so above hisfortunes, that Eugenie was lost in her feelings of compassion, surprise, and something, it might be, of admiration in her wonder. 

"And, oh!" he said, passionately, gazing on her with his dark, brillianteyes, liquid with emotion, "you have made my life sweet in saving it. You--you--of whom, ever since the first time, almost the sole time, I beheld you--I have so often mused and dreamed. Henceforth, whateverbefall me, there will be some recollections that will--that--"

He stopped short, for his heart was too full for words; and the silencesaid more to Eugenie than if all the eloquence of Rousseau had glowedupon his tongue. 

"And who, and what are you?" she asked, after a pause. 

"An exile--an orphan--an outcast! I have no name! Farewell!"

"No--stay yet--the danger is not past. Wait till my servant is gone torest; I hear him yet. Sit down--sit down. And whither would you go?"

"I know not. "

"Have you no friends?"

"Gone. "

"No home?"

"None. "

"And the police of Paris so vigilant!" cried Eugenie, wringing herhands. "What is to be done? I shall have saved you in vain--you will bediscovered! Of what do they charge you? Not robbery--not--"

And she, too, stopped short, for she did not dare to breathe the blackword, "Murder!"

"I know not, " said Morton, putting his hand to his forehead, "except ofbeing friends with the only man who befriended me--and they have killedhim!"

"Another time you shall tell me all. "

"Another time!" he exclaimed, eagerly--"shall I see you again?"

Eugenie blushed beneath the gaze and the voice of joy. "Yes, " she said;"yes. But I must reflect. Be calm be silent. Ah!--a happy thought!"

She sat down, wrote a hasty line, sealed, and gave it to Morton. 

"Take this note, as addressed, to Madame Dufour; it will provide youwith a safe lodging. She is a person I can depend on--an old servant wholived with my mother, and to whom I have given a small pension. Shehas a lodging--it is lately vacant--I promised to procure her atenant--go--say nothing of what has passed. I will see her, and arrangeall. Wait!--hark!--all is still. I will go first, and see that no onewatches you. Stop, " (and she threw open the window, and looked into thecourt. ) "The porter's door is open--that is fortunate! Hurry on, and Godbe with you!"

In a few minutes Morton was in the streets. It was still early--thethoroughfares deserted-none of the shops yet open. The address on thenote was to a street at some distance, on the other side of the Seine. He passed along the same Quai which he had trodden but a few hourssince--he passed the same splendid bridge on which he had stooddespairing, to quit it revived--he gained the Rue Faubourg St. Honore. Ayoung man in a cabriolet, on whose fair cheek burned the hectic oflate vigils and lavish dissipation, was rolling leisurely home fromthe gaming-house, at which he had been more than usually fortunate--hispockets were laden with notes and gold. He bent forwards as Mortonpassed him. Philip, absorbed in his reverie, perceived him not, andcontinued his way. The gentleman turned down one of the streets to theleft, stopped, and called to the servant dozing behind his cabriolet. 

"Follow that passenger! quietly--see where he lodges; be sure to findout and let me know. I shall go home with out you. " With that he droveon. 

Philip, unconscious of the espionage, arrived at a small house in aquiet but respectable street, and rang the bell several times before atlast he was admitted by Madame Dufour herself, in her nightcap. The oldwoman looked askant and alarmed at the unexpected apparition. But thenote seemed at once to satisfy her. She conducted him to an apartmenton the first floor, small, but neatly and even elegantly furnished, consisting of a sitting-room and a bedchamber, and said, quietly, --

"Will they suit monsieur?"

To monsieur they seemed a palace. Morton nodded assent. 

"And will monsieur sleep for a short time?"

"Yes. "

"The bed is well aired. The rooms have only been vacant three dayssince. Can I get you anything till your luggage arrives?"

"No. "

The woman left him. He threw off his clothes--flung himself on thebed--and did not wake till noon. 

When his eyes unclosed--when they rested on that calm chamber, with itsair of health, and cleanliness, and comfort, it was long before he couldconvince himself that he was yet awake. He missed the loud, deepvoice of Gawtrey--the smoke of the dead man's meerschaum--the gloomygarret--the distained walls--the stealthy whisper of the loathed Birnie;slowly the life led and the life gone within the last twelve hours grewupon his struggling memory. He groaned, and turned uneasily round, whenthe door slightly opened, and he sprung up fiercely, --

"Who is there?"

"It is only I, sir, " answered Madame Dufour. "I have been in three timesto see if you were stirring. There is a letter I believe for you, sir;though there is no name to it, " and she laid the letter on the chairbeside him. Did it come from her--the saving angel? He seized it. Thecover was blank; it was sealed with a small device, as of a ring seal. He tore it open, and found four billets de banque for 1, 000 francseach, --a sum equivalent in our money to about L160. 

"Who sent this, the--the lady from whom I brought the note?"

"Madame de Merville? certainly not, sir, " said Madame Dufour, who, withthe privilege of age, was now unscrupulously filling the water-jugs andsettling the toilette-table. "A young man called about two hours afteryou had gone to bed; and, describing you, inquired if you lodged here, and what your name was. I said you had just arrived, and that I didnot yet know your name. So he went away, and came again half an hourafterwards with this letter, which he charged me to deliver to yousafely. "

"A young man--a gentleman?"

"No, sir; he seemed a smart but common sort of lad. " For theunsophisticated Madame Dufour did not discover in the plain black frockand drab gaiters of the bearer of that letter the simple livery of anEnglish gentleman's groom. 

Whom could it come from, if not from Madame de Merville? Perhaps one ofGawtrey's late friends. A suspicion of Arthur Beaufort crossed him, buthe indignantly dismissed it. Men are seldom credulous of what they areunwilling to believe. What kindness had the Beauforts hitherto shownhim?--Left his mother to perish broken-hearted--stolen from him hisbrother, and steeled, in that brother, the only heart wherein he had aright to look for gratitude and love! No, it must be Madame de Merville. He dismissed Madame Dufour for pen and paper--rose--wrote a letter toEugenie--grateful, but proud, and inclosed the notes. He then summonedMadame Dufour, and sent her with his despatch. 

"Ah, madame, " said the ci-devant bonne, when she found herself inEugenie's presence. "The poor lad! how handsome he is, and how shamefulin the Vicomte to let him wear such clothes!"

"The Vicomte!"

"Oh, my dear mistress, you must not deny it. You told me, in your note, to ask him no questions, but I guessed at once. The Vicomte told mehimself that he should have the young gentleman over in a few days. Youneed not be ashamed of him. You will see what a difference clothes willmake in his appearance; and I have taken it on myself to order a tailorto go to him. The Vicomte--must pay me. "

"Not a word to the Vicomte as yet. We will surprise him, " said Eugenie, laughing. 

Madame de Merville had been all that morning trying to invent some storyto account for her interest in the lodger, and now how Fortune favouredher!

"But is that a letter for me?"

"And I had almost forgot it, " said Madame Dufour, as she extended theletter. 

Whatever there had hitherto been in the circumstances connected withMorton, that had roused the interest and excited the romance of Eugeniede Merville, her fancy was yet more attracted by the tone of the lettershe now read. For though Morton, more accustomed to speak than to writeFrench, expressed himself with less precision, and a less euphuisticselection of phrase, than the authors and elegans who formed her usualcorrespondents; there was an innate and rough nobleness--a strongand profound feeling in every line of his letter, which increased hersurprise and admiration. 

"All that surrounds him--all that belongs to him, is strangeness andmystery!" murmured she; and she sat down to reply. 

When Madame Dufour departed with that letter, Eugenie remained silentand thoughtful for more than an hour, Morton's letter before her; andsweet, in their indistinctness, were the recollections and the imagesthat crowded on her mind. 

Morton, satisfied by the earnest and solemn assurances of Eugenie thatshe was not the unknown donor of the sum she reinclosed, after puzzlinghimself in vain to form any new conjectures as to the quarter whence itcame, felt that under his present circumstances it would be an absurdQuixotism to refuse to apply what the very Providence to whom he hadanew consigned himself seemed to have sent to his aid. And it placedhim, too, beyond the offer of all pecuniary assistance from one fromwhom he could least have brooked to receive it. He consented, therefore, to all that the loquacious tailor proposed to him. And it would havebeen difficult to have recognised the wild and frenzied fugitive in thestately form, with its young beauty and air of well-born pride, whichthe next day sat by the side of Eugenie. And that day he told his sadand troubled story, and Eugenie wept: and from that day he came daily;and two weeks--happy, dreamlike, intoxicating to both--passed by; and astheir last sun set, he was kneeling at her feet, and breathing to one towhom the homage of wit, and genius, and complacent wealth had hithertobeen vainly proffered, the impetuous, agitated, delicious secrets ofthe First Love. He spoke, and rose to depart for ever--when the look andsigh detained him. 

The next day, after a sleepless night, Eugenie de Merville sent for theVicomte de Vaudemont. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

 "A silver river small In sweet accents Its music vents; The warbling virginal To which the merry birds do sing, Timed with stops of gold the silver string. " Sir Richard Fanshawe. 

One evening, several weeks after the events just commemorated, astranger, leading in his hand, a young child, entered the churchyardof H----. The sun had not long set, and the short twilight of deepeningsummer reigned in the tranquil skies; you might still hear from thetrees above the graves the chirp of some joyous bird;--what cared he, the denizen of the skies, for the dead that slept below?--what didhe value save the greenness and repose of the spot, --to him alikethe garden or the grave! As the man and the child passed, the robin, scarcely scared by their tread from the long grass beside one of themounds, looked at them with its bright, blithe eye. It was a famous plotfor the robin--the old churchyard! That domestic bird--"the friend ofman, " as it has been called by the poets--found a jolly supper among theworms!

The stranger, on reaching the middle of the sacred ground, paused andlooked round him wistfully. He then approached, slowly and hesitatingly, an oblong tablet, on which were graven, in letters yet fresh and new, these words:--

 TO THE MEMORY OF ONE CALUMNIATED AND WRONGED THIS BURIAL-STONE IS DEDICATED BY HER SON. 

Such, with the addition of the dates of birth and death, was the tabletwhich Philip Morton had directed to be placed over his mother's bones;and around it was set a simple palisade, which defended it from thetread of the children, who sometimes, in defiance of the beadle, playedover the dust of the former race. 

"Thy son!" muttered the stranger, while the child stood quietly byhis side, pleased by the trees, the grass, the song of the birds, andreeking not of grief or death, --"thy son!--but not thy favoured son--thydarling--thy youngest born; on what spot of earth do thine eyes lookdown on him? Surely in heaven thy love has preserved the one whom onearth thou didst most cherish, from the sufferings and the trials thathave visited the less-favoured outcast. Oh, mother--mother!--it was nothis crime--not Philip's--that he did not fulfil to the last the trustbequeathed to him! Happier, perhaps, as it is! And, oh, if thy memory begraven as deeply in my brother's heart as my own, how often will it warnand save him! That memory!--it has been to me the angel of my life!To thee--to thee, even in death, I owe it, if, though erring, I am notcriminal, --if I have lived with the lepers, and am still undefiled!" Hislips then were silent--not his heart!

After a few minutes thus consumed he turned to the child, and said, gently and in a tremulous voice, "Fanny, you have been taught topray--you will live near this spot, --will you come sometimes here andpray that you may grow up good and innocent, and become a blessing tothose who love you?"

"Will papa ever come to hear me pray?"

That sad and unconscious question went to the heart of Morton. The childcould not comprehend death. He had sought to explain it, but she hadbeen accustomed to consider her protector dead when he was absent fromher, and she still insisted that he must come again to life. And thatman of turbulence and crime, who had passed unrepentant, unabsolved, from sin to judgment: it was an awful question, "If he should hear herpray?"

"Yes!" said he, after a pause, --"yes, Fanny, there is a Father who willhear you pray; and pray to Him to be merciful to those who have beenkind to you. Fanny, you and I may never meet again!"

"Are you going to die too? Mechant, every one dies to Fanny!" and, clinging to him endearingly, she put up her lips to kiss him. He tookher in his arms: and, as a tear fell upon her rosy cheek, she said, "Don't cry, brother, for I love you. "

"Do you, dear Fanny? Then, for my sake, when you come to this place, ifany one will give you a few flowers, scatter them on that stone. And nowwe will go to one whom you must love also, and to whom, as I have toldyou, he sends you; he who--Come!"

As he thus spoke, and placed Fanny again on the ground, he was startledto see: precisely on the spot where he had seen before the likeapparition--on the same spot where the father had cursed the son, themotionless form of an old man. Morton recognised, as if by an instinctrather than by an effort of the memory, the person to whom he was bound. 

He walked slowly towards him; but Fanny abruptly left his side, lured bya moth that flitted duskily over the graves. 

"Your name, sir, I think, is Simon Gawtrey?" said Morton. "I have cameto England in quest of you. "

"Of me?" said the old man, half rising, and his eyes, now completelyblind, rolled vacantly over Morton's person--"Of me?--for what?--Who areyou?--I don't know your voice!"

"I come to you from your son!"

"My son!" exclaimed the old man, with great vehemence, --"thereprobate!--the dishonoured!--the infamous!--the accursed--"

"Hush! you revile the dead!"

"Dead!" muttered the wretched father, tottering back to the seat he hadquitted, --"dead!" and the sound of his voice was so full of anguish, that the dog at his feet, which Morton had not hitherto perceived, echoed it with a dismal cry, that recalled to Philip the awful day inwhich he had seen the son quit the father for the last time on earth. 

The sound brought Fanny to the spot; and, with a laugh of delight, whichmade to it a strange contrast, she threw herself on the grass beside thedog and sought to entice it to play. So there, in that place of death, were knit together the four links in the Great Chain;--lusty andblooming life--desolate and doting age--infancy, yet scarce conscious ofa soul--and the dumb brute, that has no warrant of a Hereafter!

"Dead!--dead!" repeated the old man, covering his sightless balls withhis withered hands. "Poor William!"

"He remembered you to the last. He bade me seek you out--he bade mereplace the guilty son with a thing pure and innocent, as he had beenhad he died in his cradle--a child to comfort your old age! Kneel, Fanny, I have found you a father who will cherish you--(oh! you will, sir, will you not?)--as he whom you may see no more!"

There was something in Morton's voice so solemn, that it awed andtouched both the old man and the infant; and Fanny, creeping to theprotector thus assigned to her, and putting her little hands confidinglyon his knees, said--

"Fanny will love you if papa wished it. Kiss Fanny. "

"Is it his child--his?" said the blind man, sobbing. "Come to my heart;here--here! O God, forgive me!" Morton did not think it right at thatmoment to undeceive him with regard to the poor child's true connexionwith the deceased: and he waited in silence till Simon, after a burst ofpassionate grief and tenderness, rose, and still clasping the child tohis breast, said--

"Sir, forgive me!--I am a very weak old man--I have many thanks togive--I have much, too, to learn. My poor son! he did not die inwant, --did he?"

The particulars of Gawtrey's fate, with his real name and the variousaliases he had assumed, had appeared in the French journals, had beenpartially copied into the English; and Morton had expected to havebeen saved the painful narrative of that fearful death; but the utterseclusion of the old man, his infirmity, and his estranged habits, hadshut him out from the intelligence that it now devolved on Philip tocommunicate. Morton hesitated a little before he answered:

"It is late now; you are not yet prepared to receive this poor infant atyour home, nor to hear the details I have to state. I arrived in Englandbut to-day. I shall lodge in the neighbourhood, for it is dear to me. If I may feel sure, then, that you will receive and treasure this sacredand last deposit bequeathed to you by your unhappy son, I will bring mycharge to you to-morrow, and we will then, more calmly than we can now, talk over the past. "

"You do not answer my question, " said Simon, passionately; "answer that, and I will wait for the rest. They call me a miser! Did I send out myonly child to starve? Answer that!"

"Be comforted. He did not die in want; and he has even left some littlefortune for Fanny, which I was to place in your hands. "

"And he thought to bribe the old miser to be human! Well--well--well--Iwill go home. "

"Lean on me!"

The dog leapt playfully on his master as the latter rose, and Fanny slidfrom Simon's arms to caress and talk to the animal in her own way. Asthey slowly passed through the churchyard Simon muttered incoherently tohimself for several paces, and Morton would not disturb, since he couldnot comfort, him. 

At last he said abruptly, "Did my son repent?"

"I hoped, " answered Morton, evasively, "that, had his life been spared, he would have amended!"

"Tush, sir!--I am past seventy; we repent!--we never amend!" And Simonagain sunk into his own dim and disconnected reveries. 

At length they arrived at the blind man's house. The door was opened tothem by an old woman of disagreeable and sinister aspect, dressed outmuch too gaily for the station of a servant, though such was her reputedcapacity; but the miser's affliction saved her from the chance of hiscomment on her extravagance. As she stood in the doorway with a candlein her hand, she scanned curiously, and with no welcoming eye, hermaster's companions. 

"Mrs. Boxer, my son is dead!" said Simon, in a hollow voice. 

"And a good thing it is, then, sir!"

"For shame, woman!" said Morton, indignantly. "Hey-dey! sir! whom havewe got here?"

"One, " said Simon, sternly, "whom you will treat with respect. He bringsme a blessing to lighten my loss. One harsh word to this child, and youquit my house!"

The woman looked perfectly thunderstruck; but, recovering herself, shesaid, whiningly--

"I! a harsh word to anything my dear, kind master cares for. And, Lord, what a sweet pretty creature it is! Come here, my dear!"

But Fanny shrunk back, and would not let go Philip's hand. 

"To-morrow, then, " said Morton; and he was turning away, when a suddenthought seemed to cross the old man, --

"Stay, sir--stay! I--I--did my son say I was rich? I am very, verypoor--nothing in the house, or I should have been robbed long ago!"

"Your son told me to bring money, not to ask for it!"

"Ask for it! No; but, " added the old man, and a gleam of cunningintelligence shot over his face, --"but he had got into a bad set. Ask!--No!--Put up the door-chain, Mrs. Boxer!"

It was with doubt and misgivings that Morton, the next day, consignedthe child, who had already nestled herself into the warmest core ofhis heart, to the care of Simon. Nothing short of that superstitiousrespect, which all men owe to the wishes of the dead, would have madehim select for her that asylum; for Fate had now, in brightening hisown prospects, given him an alternative in the benevolence of Madame deMerville. But Gawtrey had been so earnest on the subject, that he feltas if he had no right to hesitate. And was it not a sort of atonement toany faults the son might have committed against the parent, to place bythe old man's hearth so sweet a charge?

The strange and peculiar mind and character of Fanny made him, however, yet more anxious than otherwise he might have been. She certainlydeserved not the harsh name of imbecile or idiot, but she was differentfrom all other children; she felt more acutely than most of her age, butshe could not be taught to reason. There was something either obliqueor deficient in her intellect, which justified the most melancholyapprehensions; yet often, when some disordered, incoherent, inexplicabletrain of ideas most saddened the listener, it would be followed byfancies so exquisite in their strangeness, or feelings so endearing intheir tenderness, that suddenly she seemed as much above, as before sheseemed below, the ordinary measure of infant comprehension. She was likea creature to which Nature, in some cruel but bright caprice, has givenall that belongs to poetry, but denied all that belongs to the commonunderstanding necessary to mankind; or, as a fairy changeling, not, indeed, according to the vulgar superstition, malignant and deformed, but lovelier than the children of men, and haunted by dim and strugglingassociations of a gentler and fairer being, yet wholly incapable tolearn the dry and hard elements which make up the knowledge of actuallife. 

Morton, as well as he could, sought to explain to Simon thepeculiarities in Fanny's mental constitution. He urged on him thenecessity of providing for her careful instruction, and Simon promisedto send her to the best school the neighbourhood could afford; but, asthe old man spoke, he dwelt so much on the supposed fact that Fanny wasWilliam's daughter, and with his remorse, or affection, there ran sointerwoven a thread of selfishness and avarice, that Morton thought itwould be dangerous to his interest in the child to undeceive his error. He, therefore, --perhaps excusably enough--remained silent on thatsubject. 

Gawtrey had placed with the superior of the convent, together with anorder to give up the child to any one who should demand her in his truename, which he confided to the superior, a sum of nearly L300. , which hesolemnly swore had been honestly obtained, and which, in all his shiftsand adversities, he had never allowed himself to touch. This sum, withthe trifling deduction made for arrears due to the convent, Morton nowplaced in Simon's hands. The old man clutched the money, which wasfor the most in French gold, with a convulsive gripe: and then, as ifashamed of the impulse, said--

"But you, sir--will any sum--that is, any reasonable sum--be of use toyou?"

"No! and if it were, it is neither yours nor mine--it is hers. Save itfor her, and add to it what you can. "

While this conversation took place, Fanny had been consigned to the careof Mrs. Boxer, and Philip now rose to see and bid her farewell before hedeparted. 

"I may come again to visit you, Mr. Gawtrey; and I pray Heaven tofind that you and Fanny have been a mutual blessing to each other. Oh, remember how your son loved her!"

"He had a good heart, in spite of all his sins. Poor William!" saidSimon. 

Philip Morton heard, and his lip curled with a sad and a just disdain. 

If when, at the age of nineteen, William Gawtrey had quitted hisfather's roof, the father had then remembered that the son's heart wasgood, --the son had been alive still, an honest and a happy man. Do yenot laugh, O ye all-listening Fiends! when men praise those dead whosevirtues they discovered not when alive? It takes much marble to buildthe sepulchre--how little of lath and plaster would have repaired thegarret!

On turning into a small room adjoining the parlour in which Gawtreysat, Morton found Fanny standing gloomily by a dull, soot-grimed window, which looked out on the dead walls of a small yard. Mrs. Boxer, seatedby a table, was employed in trimming a cap, and putting questions toFanny in that falsetto voice of endearment in which people not used tochildren are apt to address them. 

"And so, my dear, they've never taught you to read or write? You've beensadly neglected, poor thing!"

"We must do our best to supply the deficiency, " said Morton, as heentered. 

"Bless me, sir, is that you?" and the gouvernante bustled up and droppeda low courtesy; for Morton, dressed then in the garb of a gentleman, wasof a mien and person calculated to strike the gaze of the vulgar. 

"Ah, brother!" cried Fanny, for by that name he had taught her to callhim; and she flew to his side. "Come away--it's ugly there--it makes mecold. "

"My child, I told you you must stay; but I shall hope to see you againsome day. Will you not be kind to this poor creature, ma'am? Forgive me, if I offended you last night, and favour me by accepting this, to showthat we are friends. " As he spoke, he slid his purse into the woman'shand. "I shall feel ever grateful for whatever you can do for Fanny. "

"Fanny wants nothing from any one else; Fanny wants her brother. "

"Sweet child! I fear she don't take to me. Will you like me, MissFanny?"

"No! get along!"

"Fie, Fanny--you remember you did not take to me at first. But she is soaffectionate, ma'am; she never forgets a kindness. "

"I will do all I can to please her, sir. And so she is really master'sgrandchild?" The woman fixed her eyes, as she spoke, so intently onMorton, that he felt embarrassed, and busied himself, without answering, in caressing and soothing Fanny, who now seemed to awake to theaffliction about to visit her; for though she did not weep--she veryrarely wept--her slight frame trembled--her eyes closed--her cheeks, even her lips, were white--and her delicate hands were clasped tightlyround the neck of the one about to abandon her to strange breasts. 

Morton was greatly moved. "One kiss, Fanny! and do not forget me when wemeet again. "

The child pressed her lips to his cheek, but the lips were cold. He puther down gently; she stood mute and passive. 

"Remember that he wished me to leave you here, " whispered Morton, usingan argument that never failed. "We must obey him; and so-God bless you, Fanny!"

He rose and retreated to the door; the child unclosed her eyes, andgazed at him with a strained, painful, imploring gaze; her lips moved, but she did not speak. Morton could not bear that silent woe. He soughtto smile on her consolingly; but the smile would not come. He closed thedoor, and hurried from the house. 

From that day Fanny settled into a kind of dreary, inanimate stupor, which resembled that of the somnambulist whom the magnetiser forgetsto waken. Hitherto, with all the eccentricities or deficiencies of hermind, had mingled a wild and airy gaiety. That was vanished. She spokelittle--she never played--no toys could lure her--even the poor dogfailed to win her notice. If she was told to do anything she staredvacantly and stirred not. She evinced, however, a kind of dumb regard tothe old blind man; she would creep to his knees and sit there forhours, seldom answering when he addressed her, but uneasy, anxious, andrestless, if he left her. 

"Will you die too?" she asked once; the old man understood her not, andshe did not try to explain. Early one morning, some days after Mortonwas gone, they missed her: she was not in the house, nor the dull yardwhere she was sometimes dismissed and told to play--told in vain. Ingreat alarm the old man accused Mrs. Boxer of having spirited her away, and threatened and stormed so loudly that the woman, against her will, went forth to the search. At last she found the child in the churchyard, standing wistfully beside a tomb. 

"What do you here, you little plague?" said Mrs. Boxer, rudely seizingher by the arm. 

"This is the way they will both come back some day! I dreamt so!"

"If ever I catch you here again!" said the housekeeper, and, wiping herbrow with one hand, she struck the child with the other. Fanny had neverbeen struck before. She recoiled in terror and amazement, and, for thefirst time since her arrival, burst into tears. 

"Come--come, no crying! and if you tell master I'll beat you withinan inch of your life!" So saying, she caught Fanny in her arms, and, walking about, scolding and menacing, till she had frightened back thechild's tears, she returned triumphantly to the house, and bursting intothe parlour, exclaimed, "Here's the little darling, sir!"

When old Simon learned where the child had been found he was glad; forit was his constant habit, whenever the evening was fine, to glide outto that churchyard--his dog his guide--and sit on his one favouritespot opposite the setting sun. This, not so much for the sanctity ofthe place, or the meditations it might inspire, as because it was thenearest, the safest, and the loneliest spot in the neighbourhood of hishome, where the blind man could inhale the air and bask in the light ofheaven. Hitherto, thinking it sad for the child, he had never takenher with him; indeed, at the hour of his monotonous excursion she hadgenerally been banished to bed. Now she was permitted to accompany him;and the old man and the infant would sit there side by side, as Age andInfancy rested side by side in the graves below. The first symptom ofchildlike interest and curiosity that Fanny betrayed was awakened by theaffliction of her protector. One evening, as they thus sat, she made himexplain what the desolation of blindness is. She seemed tocomprehend him, though he did not seek to adapt his complaints to herunderstanding. 

"Fanny knows, " said she, touchingly; "for she, too, is blind here;" andshe pressed her hands to her temples. Notwithstanding her silence andstrange ways, and although he could not see the exquisite lovelinesswhich Nature, as in remorseful pity, had lavished on her outward form, Simon soon learned to love her better than he had ever loved yet: forthey most cold to the child are often dotards to the grandchild. Forher even his avarice slept. Dainties, never before known at his sparingboard, were ordered to tempt her appetite, toy-shops ransacked to amuseher indolence. He was long, however, before he could prevail on himselfto fulfil his promise to Morton, and rob himself of her presence. At length, however, wearied with Mrs. Boxer's lamentations at herignorance, and alarmed himself at some evidences of helplessness, whichmade him dread to think what her future might be when left alone inlife, he placed her at a day-school in the suburb. Here Fanny, for aconsiderable time, justified the harshest assertions of her stupidity. She could not even keep her eyes two minutes together on the page fromwhich she was to learn the mysteries of reading; months passed beforeshe mastered the alphabet, and, a month after, she had again forgot it, and the labour was renewed. The only thing in which she showed ability, if so it might be called, was in the use of the needle. The sisters ofthe convent had already taught her many pretty devices in this art;and when she found that at the school they were admired--that she waspraised instead of blamed--her vanity was pleased, and she learnedso readily all that they could teach in this not unprofitableaccomplishment, that Mrs. Boxer slyly and secretly turned her tasksto account and made a weekly perquisite of the poor pupil's industry. Another faculty she possessed, in common with persons usually deficient, and with the lower species--viz. , a most accurate and faithfulrecollection of places. At first Mrs. Boxer had been duly sent, morning, noon, and evening, to take her to, or bring her from, the school; butthis was so great a grievance to Simon's solitary superintendent, andFanny coaxed the old man so endearingly to allow her to go and returnalone, that the attendance, unwelcome to both, was waived. Fanny exultedin this liberty; and she never, in going or in returning, missed passingthrough the burial-ground, and gazing wistfully at the tomb from whichshe yet believed Morton would one day reappear. With his memory shecherished also that of her earlier and more guilty protector; but theywere separate feelings, which she distinguished in her own way. 

"Papa had given her up. She knew that he would not have sent her away, far--far over the great water, if he had meant to see Fanny again; buther brother was forced to leave her--he would come to life one day, andthen they should live together!"

One day, towards the end of autumn, as her schoolmistress, a good womanon the whole, but who had not yet had the wit to discover by what chordsto tune the instrument, over which so wearily she drew her unskilfulhand--one day, we say, the schoolmistress happened to be dressed fora christening party to which she was invited in the suburb; and, accordingly, after the morning lessons, the pupils were to be dismissedto a holiday. As Fanny now came last, with the hopeless spelling-book, she stopped suddenly short, and her eyes rested with avidity upon alarge bouquet of exotic flowers, with which the good lady had enlivenedthe centre of the parted kerchief, whose yellow gauze modestly veiledthat tender section of female beauty which poets have likened to hillsof snow--a chilling simile! It was then autumn; and field, and evengarden flowers were growing rare. 

"Will you give me one of those flowers?" said Fanny, dropping her book. 

"One of these flowers, child! why?"

Fanny did not answer; but one of the elder and cleverer girls said--

"Oh! she comes from France, you know, ma'am, and the Roman Catholics putflowers, and ribands, and things, over the graves; you recollect, ma'am, we were reading yesterday about Pere-la-Chaise?"

"Well! what then?"

"And Miss Fanny will do any kind of work for us if we will give herflowers. "

"My brother told me where to put them;--but these pretty flowers, Inever had any like them; they may bring him back again! I'll be so goodif you'll give me one, only one!"

"Will you learn your lesson if I do, Fanny?"

"Oh! yes! Wait a moment!"

And Fanny stole back to her desk, put the hateful book resolutely beforeher, pressed both hands tightly on her temples, --Eureka! the chord wastouched; and Fanny marched in triumph through half a column of hostiledouble syllables!

From that day the schoolmistress knew how to stimulate her, and Fannylearned to read: her path to knowledge thus literally strewn withflowers! Catherine, thy children were far off, and thy grave looked gay!

It naturally happened that those short and simple rhymes, often sacred, which are repeated in schools as helps to memory, made a part of herstudies; and no sooner had the sound of verse struck upon her fancy thanit seemed to confuse and agitate anew all her senses. It was like themusic of some breeze, to which dance and tremble all the young leavesof a wild plant. Even when at the convent she had been fond of repeatingthe infant rhymes with which they had sought to lull or to amuse her, but now the taste was more strongly developed. She confounded, however, in meaningless and motley disorder, the various snatches of songthat came to her ear, weaving them together in some form which sheunderstood, but which was jargon to all others; and often, as she wentalone through the green lanes or the bustling streets, the passengerwould turn in pity and fear to hear her half chant--half murmur--dittiesthat seemed to suit only a wandering and unsettled imagination. And asMrs. Boxer, in her visits to the various shops in the suburb, tookcare to bemoan her hard fate in attending to a creature so evidentlymoon-stricken, it was no wonder that the manner and habits of the child, coupled with that strange predilection to haunt the burial-ground, whichis not uncommon with persons of weak and disordered intellect; confirmedthe character thus given to her. 

So, as she tripped gaily and lightly along the thoroughfares, thechildren would draw aside from her path, and whisper with superstitiousfear mingled with contempt, "It's the idiot girl!"--Idiot--how much moreof heaven's light was there in that cloud than in the rushlightsthat, flickering in sordid chambers, shed on dull things the dullray--esteeming themselves as stars!

Months-years passed--Fanny was thirteen, when there dawned a new era toher existence. Mrs. Boxer had never got over her first grudge to Fanny. Her treatment of the poor girl was always harsh, and sometimes cruel. But Fanny did not complain, and as Mrs. Boxer's manner to her beforeSimon was invariably cringing and caressing, the old man never guessedthe hardships his supposed grandchild underwent. There had been scandalsome years back in the suburb about the relative connexion of the masterand the housekeeper; and the flaunting dress of the latter, somethingbold in her regard, and certain whispers that her youth had not beenvowed to Vesta, confirmed the suspicion. The only reason why we do notfeel sure that the rumour was false is this, --Simon Gawtrey had beenso hard on the early follies of his son! Certainly, at all events, thewoman had exercised great influence over the miser before the arrivalof Fanny, and she had done much to steel his selfishness against theill-fated William. And, as certainly, she had fully calculated onsucceeding to the savings, whatever they might be, of the miser, whenever Providence should be pleased to terminate his days. She knewthat Simon had, many years back, made his will in her favour; she knewthat he had not altered that will: she believed, therefore, that inspite of all his love for Fanny, he loved his gold so much more, that hecould not accustom himself to the thought of bequeathing it to hands toohelpless to guard the treasure. This had in some measure reconciledthe housekeeper to the intruder; whom, nevertheless, she hated as a doghates another dog, not only for taking his bone, but for looking at it. 

But suddenly Simon fell ill. His age made it probable he would die. Hetook to his bed--his breathing grew fainter and fainter--he seemed dead. Fanny, all unconscious, sat by his bedside as usual, holding her breathnot to waken him. Mrs. Boxer flew to the bureau--she unlocked it--shecould not find the will; but she found three bags of bright goldguineas: the sight charmed her. She tumbled them forth on the distainedgreen cloth of the bureau--she began to count them; and at that moment, the old man, as if there were a secret magnetism between himself andthe guineas, woke from his trance. His blindness saved him the painthat might have been fatal, of seeing the unhallowed profanation; but heheard the chink of the metal. The very sound restored his strength. But the infirm are always cunning--he breathed not a suspicion. "Mrs. Boxer, " said he, faintly, "I think I could take some broth. " Mrs. Boxerrose in great dismay, gently re-closed the bureau, and ran down-stairsfor the broth. Simon took the occasion to question Fanny; and no soonerhad he learnt the operation of the heir-expectant, than he bade the girlfirst lock the bureau and bring him the key, and next run to a lawyer(whose address he gave her), and fetch him instantly. 

With a malignant smile the old man took the broth from hishandmaid, --"Poor Boxer, you are a disinterested creature, " said he, feebly; "I think you will grieve when I go. "

Mrs. Boxer sobbed, and before she had recovered, the lawyer entered. That day a new will was made; and the lawyer politely informed Mrs. Boxer that her services would be dispensed with the next morning, whenhe should bring a nurse to the house. Mrs. Boxer heard, andtook her resolution. As soon as Simon again fell asleep, she crept into the room-led away Fanny--locked her up in her ownchamber--returned--searched for the key of the bureau, which she foundat last under Simon's pillow--possessed herself of all she could lay herhands on--and the next morning she had disappeared forever! Simon's losswas greater than might have been supposed; for, except a trifling sum inthe savings bank, he, like many other misers, kept all he had, in notesor specie, under his own lock and key. His whole fortune, indeed, wasfar less than was supposed: for money does not make money unless it isput out to interest, --and the miser cheated himself. Such portion as wasin bank-notes Mrs. Boxer probably had the prudence to destroy; for thosenumbers which Simon could remember were never traced; the gold, whocould swear to? Except the pittance in the savings bank, and whatevermight be the paltry worth of the house he rented, the father who hadenriched the menial to exile the son was a beggar in his dotage. Thisnews, however, was carefully concealed from him by the advice of thedoctor, whom, on his own responsibility, the lawyer introduced, tillhe had recovered sufficiently to bear the shock without danger; and thedelay naturally favoured Mrs. Boxer's escape. 

Simon remained for some moments perfectly stunned and speechless whenthe news was broken to him. Fanny, in alarm at his increasing paleness, sprang to his breast. He pushed her away, --"Go--go--go, child, " he said;"I can't feed you now. Leave me to starve. "

"To starve!" said Fanny, wonderingly; and she stole away, and satherself down as if in deep thought. She then crept up to the lawyeras he was about to leave the room, after exhausting his stock ofcommonplace consolation; and putting her hand in his, whispered, "I wantto talk to you--this way:"--She led him through the passage into theopen air. "Tell me, " she said, "when poor people try not to starve, don't they work?"

"My dear, yes. "

"For rich people buy poor people's work?"

"Certainly, my dear; to be sure. "

"Very well. Mrs. Boxer used to sell my work. Fanny will feed grandpapa!Go and tell him never to say 'starve' again. "

The good-natured lawyer was moved. "Can you work, indeed, my poor girl?Well, put on your bonnet, and come and talk to my wife. "

And that was the new era in Fanny's existence! Her schooling wasstopped. But now life schooled her. Necessity ripened her intellect. Andmany a hard eye moistened, --as, seeing her glide with her little basketof fancy work along the streets, still murmuring her happy and bird-likesnatches of unconnected song--men and children alike said with respect, in which there was now no contempt, "It's the idiot girl who supportsher blind grandfather!" They called her idiot still!

BOOK IV. 

CHAPTER I. 

 "O that sweet gleam of sunshine on the lake!" WILSON'S City of the Plague

If, reader, you have ever looked through a solar microscope at themonsters in a drop of water, perhaps you have wondered to yourself howthings so terrible have been hitherto unknown to you--you have felt aloathing at the limpid element you hitherto deemed so pure--you havehalf fancied that you would cease to be a water-drinker; yet, the nextday you have forgotten the grim life that started before you, with itscountless shapes, in that teeming globule; and, if so tempted by yourthirst, you have not shrunk from the lying crystal, although myriads ofthe horrible Unseen are mangling, devouring, gorging each other in theliquid you so tranquilly imbibe; so is it with that ancestral and masterelement called Life. Lapped in your sleek comforts, and lolling on thesofa of your patent conscience--when, perhaps for the first time, youlook through the glass of science upon one ghastly globule in the watersthat heave around, that fill up, with their succulence, the pores ofearth, that moisten every atom subject to your eyes or handled by yourtouch--you are startled and dismayed; you say, mentally, "Can suchthings be? I never dreamed of this before! I thought what wasinvisible to me was non-existent in itself--I will remember this dreadexperiment. " The next day the experiment is forgotten. --The Chemist maypurify the Globule--can Science make pure the World?

Turn we now to the pleasant surface, seen in the whole, broad and fairto the common eye. Who would judge well of God's great designs, if hecould look on no drop pendent from the rose-tree, or sparkling in thesun, without the help of his solar microscope?

It is ten years after the night on which William Gawtrey perished:--Itransport you, reader, to the fairest scenes in England, --scenesconsecrated by the only true pastoral poetry we have known toContemplation and Repose. 

Autumn had begun to tinge the foliage on the banks of Winandermere. Ithad been a summer of unusual warmth and beauty; and if that year youhad visited the English lakes, you might, from time to time, amidst thegroups of happy idlers you encountered, have singled out two personsfor interest, or, perhaps, for envy. Two who might have seemed to you inpeculiar harmony with those serene and soft retreats, both young--bothbeautiful. Lovers you would have guessed them to be; but such loversas Fletcher might have placed under the care of his "HolyShepherdess"--forms that might have reclined by

 "The virtuous well, about whose flowery banks The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds By the pale moonshine. "

For in the love of those persons there seemed a purity and innocencethat suited well their youth and the character of their beauty. Perhaps, indeed, on the girl's side, love sprung rather from those affectionswhich the spring of life throws upward to the surface, as the spring ofearth does its flowers, than from that concentrated and deep absorptionof self in self, which alone promises endurance and devotion, and ofwhich first love, or rather the first fancy, is often less susceptiblethan that which grows out of the more thoughtful fondness of matureryears. Yet he, the lover, was of so rare and singular a beauty, that hemight well seem calculated to awake, to the utmost, the love which winsthe heart through the eyes. 

But to begin at the beginning. A lady of fashion had, in the autumnprevious to the year in which our narrative re-opens, taken, with herdaughter, a girl then of about eighteen, the tour of the English lakes. Charmed by the beauty of Winandermere, and finding one of the mostcommodious villas on its banks to be let, they had remained there allthe winter. In the early spring a severe illness had seized the elderlady, and finding herself, as she slowly recovered, unfit for thegaieties of a London season, nor unwilling, perhaps, --for she had beena beauty in her day--to postpone for another year the debut of herdaughter, she had continued her sojourn, with short intervals ofabsence, for a whole year. Her husband, a busy man of the world, withoccupation in London, and fine estates in the country, joined themonly occasionally, glad to escape the still beauty of landscapes whichbrought him no rental, and therefore afforded no charm to his eye. 

In the first month of their arrival at Winandermere, the mother anddaughter had made an eventful acquaintance in the following manner. 

One evening, as they were walking on their lawn, which sloped to thelake, they heard the sound of a flute, played with a skill so exquisiteas to draw them, surprised and spellbound, to the banks. The musicianwas a young man, in a boat, which he had moored beneath the trees oftheir demesne. He was alone, or, rather, he had one companion, in alarge Newfoundland dog, that sat watchful at the helm of the boat, and appeared to enjoy the music as much as his master. As the ladiesapproached the spot, the dog growled, and the young man ceased, thoughwithout seeing the fair causes of his companion's displeasure. The sun, then setting, shone full on his countenance as he looked round; and thatcountenance was one that might have haunted the nymphs of Delos; theface of Apollo, not as the hero, but the shepherd--not of the bow, but of the lute--not the Python-slayer, but the young dreamer by shadyplaces--he whom the sculptor has portrayed leaning idly against thetree--the boy-god whose home is yet on earth, and to whom the Oracle andthe Spheres are still unknown. 

At that moment the dog leaped from the boat, and the elder lady uttereda faint cry of alarm, which, directing the attention of the musician, brought him also ashore. He called off his dog, and apologised, with anot ungraceful mixture of diffidence and ease, for his intrusion. He wasnot aware the place was inhabited--it was a favourite haunt of his--helived near. The elder lady was pleased with his address, and struck withhis appearance. There was, indeed, in his manner that indefinable charm, which is more attractive than mere personal appearance, and whichcan never be imitated or acquired. They parted, however, withoutestablishing any formal acquaintance. A few days after, they met atdinner at a neighbouring house, and were introduced by name. That of theyoung man seemed strange to the ladies; not so theirs to him. He turnedpale when he heard it, and remained silent and aloof the rest of theevening. They met again and often; and for some weeks--nay, even formonths--he appeared to avoid, as much as possible, the acquaintance soauspiciously begun; but, by little and little, the beauty of the youngerlady seemed to gain ground on his diffidence or repugnance. Excursionsamong the neighbouring mountains threw them together, and at last hefairly surrendered himself to the charm he had at first determined toresist. 

This young man lived on the opposite side of the lake, in a quiethousehold, of which he was the idol. His life had been one of almostmonastic purity and repose; his tastes were accomplished, his characterseemed soft and gentle; but beneath that calm exterior, flashes ofpassion--the nature of the poet, ardent and sensitive--would break forthat times. He had scarcely ever, since his earliest childhood, quittedthose retreats; he knew nothing of the world, except in books--booksof poetry and romance. Those with whom he lived--his relations, an oldbachelor, and the cold bachelor's sisters, old maids--seemed equallyinnocent and inexperienced. It was a family whom the rich respected andthe poor loved--inoffensive, charitable, and well off. To whatever theireasy fortune might be, he appeared the heir. The name of this youngman was Charles Spencer; the ladies were Mrs. Beaufort, and Camilla herdaughter. 

Mrs. Beaufort, though a shrewd woman, did not at first perceive anydanger in the growing intimacy between Camilla and the younger Spencer. Her daughter was not her favourite--not the object of her one thought orambition. Her whole heart and soul were wrapped in her son Arthur, wholived principally abroad. Clever enough to be considered capable, whenhe pleased, of achieving distinction, good-looking enough to be thoughthandsome by all who were on the qui vive for an advantageous match, good-natured enough to be popular with the society in which he lived, scattering to and fro money without limit, --Arthur Beaufort, at theage of thirty, had established one of those brilliant and evanescentreputations, which, for a few years, reward the ambition of the finegentleman. It was precisely the reputation that the mother couldappreciate, and which even the more saving father secretly admired, while, ever respectable in phrase, Mr. Robert Beaufort seemed openly toregret it. This son was, I say, everything to them; they cared little, in comparison, for their daughter. How could a daughter keep up theproud name of Beaufort? However well she might marry, it was anotherhouse, not theirs, which her graces and beauty would adorn. Moreover, the better she might marry the greater her dowry would naturallybe, --the dowry, to go out of the family! And Arthur, poor fellow! wasso extravagant, that really he would want every sixpence. Such was thereasoning of the father. The mother reasoned less upon the matter. Mrs. Beaufort, faded and meagre, in blonde and cashmere, was jealous ofthe charms of her daughter; and she herself, growing sentimentaland lachrymose as she advanced in life, as silly women often do, hadconvinced herself that Camilla was a girl of no feeling. 

Miss Beaufort was, indeed, of a character singularly calm and placid; itwas the character that charms men in proportion, perhaps, to their ownstrength and passion. She had been rigidly brought up--her affectionshad been very early chilled and subdued; they moved, therefore, now, with ease, in the serene path of her duties. She held her parents, especially her father, in reverential fear, and never dreamed of thepossibility of resisting one of their wishes, much less their commands. Pious, kind, gentle, of a fine and never-ruffled temper, Camilla, anadmirable daughter, was likely to make no less admirable a wife; youmight depend on her principles, if ever you could doubt her affection. Few girls were more calculated to inspire love. You would scarcelywonder at any folly, any madness, which even a wise man might commitfor her sake. This did not depend on her beauty alone, though she wasextremely lovely rather than handsome, and of that style of lovelinesswhich is universally fascinating: the figure, especially as to the arms, throat, and bust, was exquisite; the mouth dimpled; the teeth dazzling;the eyes of that velvet softness which to look on is to love. But hercharm was in a certain prettiness of manner, an exceeding innocence, mixed with the most captivating, because unconscious, coquetry. With allthis, there was a freshness, a joy, a virgin and bewitching candour inher voice, her laugh--you might almost say in her very movements. Suchwas Camilla Beaufort at that age. Such she seemed to others. To herparents she was only a great girl rather in the way. To Mrs. Beaufort arival, to Mr. Beaufort an encumbrance on the property. 

CHAPTER II. 

 * * * "The moon Saddening the solemn night, yet with that sadness Mingling the breath of undisturbed Peace. " WILSON: City of the Plague

 * * * "Tell me his fate. Say that he lives, or say that he is dead But tell me--tell me! * * * * * * I see him not--some cloud envelopes him. "--Ibid. 

One day (nearly a year after their first introduction) as with a partyof friends Camilla and Charles Spencer were riding through those wildand romantic scenes which lie between the sunny Winandermere and thedark and sullen Wastwater, their conversation fell on topics morepersonal than it had hitherto done, for as yet, if they felt love, theyhad never spoken of it. 

The narrowness of the path allowed only two to ride abreast, and the twoto whom I confine my description were the last of the little band. 

"How I wish Arthur were here!" said Camilla; "I am sure you would likehim. "

"Are you? He lives much in the world--the world of which I know nothing. Are we then characters to suit each other?"

"He is the kindest--the best of human beings!" said Camilla, ratherevasively, but with more warmth than usually dwelt in her soft and lowvoice. 

"Is he so kind?" returned Spencer, musingly. "Well, it may be so. Andwho would not be kind to you? Ah! it is a beautiful connexion that ofbrother and sister--I never had a sister!"

"Have you then a brother?" asked Camilla, in some surprise, and turningher ingenuous eyes full on her companion. 

Spencer's colour rose--rose to his temples: his voice trembled as heanswered, "No;--no brother!" then, speaking in a rapid and hurriedtone, he continued, "My life has been a strange and lonely one. I am anorphan. I have mixed with few of my own age: my boyhood and youth havebeen spent in these scenes; my education such as Nature and books couldbestow, with scarcely any guide or tutor save my guardian--the dear oldman! Thus the world, the stir of cities, ambition, enterprise, --allseem to me as things belonging to a distant land to which I shall neverwander. Yet I have had my dreams, Miss Beaufort; dreams of which thesesolitudes still form a part--but solitudes not unshared. And lately Ihave thought that those dreams might be prophetic. And you--do you lovethe world?"

"I, like you, have scarcely tried it, " said Camilla, with a sweet laugh. "but I love the country better, --oh! far better than what little I haveseen of towns. But for you, " she continued with a charming hesitation, "a man is so different from us, --for you to shrink from the world--you, so young and with talents too--nay, it is true!--it seems to mestrange. "

"It may be so, but I cannot tell you what feelings of dread--what vagueforebodings of terror seize me if I carry my thoughts beyond theseretreats. Perhaps my good guardian--"

"Your uncle?" interrupted Camilla. 

"Ay, my uncle--may have contributed to engender feelings, as you say, strange at my age; but still--"

"Still what!"

"My earlier childhood, " continued Spencer, breathing hard and turningpale, "was not spent in the happy home I have now; it was passed in apremature ordeal of suffering and pain. Its recollections have left adark shadow on my mind, and under that shadow lies every thought thatpoints towards the troublous and labouring career of other men. But, "he resumed after a pause, and in a deep, earnest, almost solemnvoice, --"but after all, is this cowardice or wisdom? I find nomonotony--no tedium in this quiet life. Is there not a certainmorality--a certain religion in the spirit of a secluded and countryexistence? In it we do not know the evil passions which ambition andstrife are said to arouse. I never feel jealous or envious of other men;I never know what it is to hate; my boat, my horse, our garden, music, books, and, if I may dare to say so, the solemn gladness that comes fromthe hopes of another life, --these fill up every hour with thoughtsand pursuits, peaceful, happy, and without a cloud, till of late, when--when--"

"When what?" said Camilla, innocently. 

"When I have longed, but did not dare to ask another, if to share such alot would content her!"

He bent, as he spoke, his soft blue eyes full upon the blushing face ofher whom he addressed, and Camilla half smiled and half sighed:

"Our companions are far before us, " said she, turning away her face, "and see, the road is now smooth. " She quickened her horse's pace asshe said this; and Spencer, too new to women to interpret favourablyher evasion of his words and looks, fell into a profound silence whichlasted during the rest of their excursion. 

As towards the decline of day he bent his solitary way home, emotionsand passions to which his life had hitherto been a stranger, and which, alas! he had vainly imagined a life so tranquil would everlastinglyrestrain, swelled his heart. 

"She does not love me, " he muttered, half aloud; "she will leave me, andwhat then will all the beauty of the landscape seem in my eyes? And howdare I look up to her? Even if her cold, vain mother--her father, theman, they say, of forms and scruples, were to consent, would they notquestion closely of my true birth and origin? And if the one blot wereoverlooked, is there no other? His early habits and vices, his?--abrother's--his unknown career terminating at any day, perhaps, in shame, in crime, in exposure, in the gibbet, --will they overlook this?" As hespoke, he groaned aloud, and, as if impatient to escape himself, spurredon his horse and rested not till he reached the belt of trim and soberevergreens that surrounded his hitherto happy home. 

Leaving his horse to find its way to the stables, the young man passedthrough rooms, which he found deserted, to the lawn on the other side, which sloped to the smooth waters of the lake. 

Here, seated under the one large tree that formed the pride of the lawn, over which it cast its shadow broad and far, he perceived his guardianporing idly over an oft-read book, one of those books of which literarydreamers are apt to grow fanatically fond--books by the old Englishwriters, full of phrases and conceits half quaint and half sublime, interspersed with praises of the country, imbued with a poetical ratherthan orthodox religion, and adorned with a strange mixture of monasticlearning and aphorisms collected from the weary experience of actuallife. 

To the left, by a greenhouse, built between the house and the lake, might be seen the white dress and lean form of the eldest spinstersister, to whom the care of the flowers--for she had been early crossedin love--was consigned; at a little distance from her, the other twowere seated at work, and conversing in whispers, not to disturb theirstudious brother, no doubt upon the nephew, who was their all in all. Itwas the calmest hour of eve, and the quiet of the several forms, their simple and harmless occupations--if occupations they might becalled--the breathless foliage rich in the depth of summer; behind, theold-fashioned house, unpretending, not mean, its open doors and windowsgiving glimpses of the comfortable repose within; before, the lake, without a ripple and catching the gleam of the sunset clouds, --all madea picture of that complete tranquillity and stillness, which sometimessoothes and sometimes saddens us, according as we are in the temper towoo CONTENT. 

The young man glided to his guardian and touched his shoulder, --"Sir, may I speak to you?--Hush! they need not see us now! it is only you Iwould speak with. "

The elder Spencer rose; and, with his book still in his hand, moved sideby side with his nephew under the shadow of the tree and towards a walkto the right, which led for a short distance along the margin of thelake, backed by the interlaced boughs of a thick copse. 

"Sir!" said the young man, speaking first, and with a visible effort, "your cautions have been in vain! I love this girl--this daughter of thehaughty Beauforts! I love her--better than life I love her!"

"My poor boy, " said the uncle tenderly, and with a simple fondnesspassing his arm over the speaker's shoulder, "do not think I can chideyou--I know what it is to love in vain!"

"In vain!--but why in vain?" exclaimed the younger Spencer, with avehemence that had in it something of both agony and fierceness. "Shemay love me--she shall love me!" and almost for the first time in hislife, the proud consciousness of his rare gifts of person spoke in hiskindled eye and dilated stature. "Do they not say that Nature has beenfavourable to me?--What rival have I here?--Is she not young?--And(sinking his voice till it almost breathed like music) is not lovecontagious?"

"I do not doubt that she may love you--who would not?--but--but--theparents, will they ever consent?"

"Nay!" answered the lover, as with that inconsistency common to passion, he now argued stubbornly against those fears in another to which he hadjust before yielded in himself, --"Nay!--after all, am I not of their ownblood?--Do I not come from the elder branch?--Was I not reared in equalluxury and with higher hopes?--And my mother--my poor mother--didshe not to the last maintain our birthright--her own honour?--Has notaccident or law unjustly stripped us of our true station?--Is it not forus to forgive spoliation?--Am I not, in fact, the person who descends, who forgets the wrongs of the dead--the heritage of the living?"

The young man had never yet assumed this tone--had never yet shown thathe looked back to the history connected with his birth with the feelingsof resentment and the remembrance of wrong. It was a tone contraryto his habitual calm and contentment--it struck forcibly on hislistener--and the elder Spencer was silent for some moments before hereplied, "If you feel thus (and it is natural), you have yet strongerreason to struggle against this unhappy affection. "

"I have been conscious of that, sir, " replied the young man, mournfully. "I have struggled!--and I say again it is in vain! I turn, then, to facethe obstacles! My birth--let us suppose that the Beauforts overlook it. Did you not tell me that Mr. Beaufort wrote to inform you of the abruptand intemperate visit of my brother--of his determination never toforgive it? I think I remember something of this years ago. "

"It is true!" said the guardian; "and the conduct of that brother is, in fact, the true cause why you never ought to reassume your propername!--never to divulge it, even to the family with whom you connectyourself by marriage; but, above all, to the Beauforts, who for thatcause, if that cause alone, would reject your suit. "

The young man groaned--placed one hand before his eyes, and with theother grasped his guardian's arm convulsively, as if to check him fromproceeding farther; but the good man, not divining his meaning, andabsorbed in his subject, went on, irritating the wound he had touched. 

"Reflect!--your brother in boyhood--in the dying hours of his mother, scarcely saved from the crime of a thief, flying from a friendly pursuitwith a notorious reprobate; afterwards implicated in some discreditabletransaction about a horse, rejecting all--every hand that could savehim, clinging by choice to the lowest companions and the meanest-habits, disappearing from the country, and last seen, ten years ago--the beardnot yet on his chin--with that same reprobate of whom I have spoken, inParis; a day or so only before his companion, a coiner--a murderer--fellby the hands of the police! You remember that when, in your seventeenthyear, you evinced some desire to retake your name--nay, even to re-findthat guilty brother--I placed before you, as a sad and terrible duty, the newspaper that contained the particulars of the death and theformer adventures of that wretched accomplice, the notorious Gawtrey. And, --telling you that Mr. Beaufort had long since written to inform methat his own son and Lord Lilburne had seen your brother in company withthe miscreant just before his fate--nay, was, in all probability, thevery youth described in the account as found in his chamber andescaping the pursuit--I asked you if you would now venture to leave thatdisguise--that shelter under which you would for ever be safe from theopprobrium of the world--from the shame that, sooner or later, yourbrother must bring upon your name!"

"It is true--it is true!" said the pretended nephew, in a tone of greatanguish, and with trembling lips which the blood had forsaken. "Horribleto look either to his past or his future! But--but--we have heard ofhim no more--no one ever has learned his fate. Perhaps--perhaps" (and heseemed to breathe more freely)--"my brother is no more!"

And poor Catherine--and poor Philip---had it come to this? Did theone brother feel a sentiment of release, of joy, in conjecturing thedeath--perhaps the death of violence and shame--of his fellow-orphan?Mr. Spencer shook his head doubtingly, but made no reply. The youngman sighed heavily, and strode on for several paces in advance of hisprotector, then, turning back, he laid his hand on his shoulder. 

"Sir, " he said in a low voice and with downcast eyes, "you are right:this disguise--this false name--must be for ever borne! Why needthe Beauforts, then, ever know who and what I am? Why not as yournephew--nephew to one so respected and exemplary--proffer my claims andplead my cause?"

"They are proud--so it is said--and worldly;--you know my family was intrade--still--but--" and here Mr. Spencer broke off from a tone of doubtinto that of despondency, "but, recollect, though Mrs. Beaufort maynot remember the circumstance, both her husband and her son have seenme--have known my name. Will they not suspect, when once introduced toyou, the stratagem that has been adopted?--Nay, has it not been fromthat very fear that you have wished me to shun the acquaintance of thefamily? Both Mr. Beaufort and Arthur saw you in childhood, and theirsuspicion once aroused, they may recognise you at once; your featuresare developed, but not altogether changed. Come, come!--my adopted, mydear son, shake off this fantasy betimes: let us change the scene: Iwill travel with you--read with you--go where--"

"Sir--sir!" exclaimed the lover, smiting his breast, "you are everkind, compassionate, generous; but do not--do not rob me of hope. I havenever--thanks to you--felt, save in a momentary dejection, the curse ofmy birth. Now how heavily it falls! Where shall I look for comfort?"

As he spoke, the sound of a bell broke over the translucent air and theslumbering lake: it was the bell that every eve and morn summoned thatinnocent and pious family to prayer. The old man's face changed as heheard it--changed from its customary indolent, absent, listless aspect, into an expression of dignity, even of animation. 

"Hark!" he said, pointing upwards; "Hark! it chides you. Who shall say, 'Where shall I look for comfort' while God is in the heavens?"

The young man, habituated to the faith and observance of religion, tillthey had pervaded his whole nature, bowed his head in rebuke; a fewtears stole from his eyes. 

"You are right, father--, " he said tenderly, giving emphasis to thedeserved and endearing name. "I am comforted already!"

So, side by side, silently and noiselessly, the young and the old manglided back to the house. When they gained the quiet room in which thefamily usually assembled, the sisters and servants were already gatheredround the table. They knelt as the loiterers entered. It was the wontedduty of the younger Spencer to read the prayers; and, as he now did so, his graceful countenance more hushed, his sweet voice more earnest thanusual, in its accents: who that heard could have deemed the heart withinconvulsed by such stormy passions? Or was it not in that hour--thatsolemn commune--soothed from its woe? O beneficent Creator! thou whoinspirest all the tribes of earth with the desire to pray, hast Thounot, in that divinest instinct, bestowed on us the happiest of Thygifts?

CHAPTER III. 

 "Bertram. I mean the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it hereafter. 

 "1st Soldier. Do you know this Captain Dumain?" All's Well that Ends Well. 

One evening, some weeks after the date of the last chapter, Mr. RobertBeaufort sat alone in his house in Berkeley Square. He had arrived thatmorning from Beaufort Court, on his way to Winandermere, to which hewas summoned by a letter from his wife. That year was an agitated andeventful epoch in England; and Mr. Beaufort had recently gone throughthe bustle of an election--not, indeed, contested; for his popularityand his property defied all rivalry in his own county. 

The rich man had just dined, and was seated in lazy enjoyment by theside of the fire, which he had had lighted, less for the warmth--thoughit was then September--than for the companionship;--engaged in finishinghis madeira, and, with half-closed eyes, munching his devilled biscuits. "I am sure, " he soliloquised while thus employed, "I don't knowexactly what to do, --my wife ought to decide matters where the girl isconcerned; a son is another affair--that's the use of a wife. Humph!"

"Sir, " said a fat servant, opening the door, "a gentleman wishes to seeyou upon very particular business. "

"Business at this hour! Tell him to go to Mr. Blackwell. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Stay! perhaps he is a constituent, Simmons. Ask him if he belongs tothe county. "

"Yes, Sir. "

"A great estate is a great plague, " muttered Mr. Beaufort; "so is agreat constituency. It is pleasanter, after all, to be in the House ofLords. I suppose I could if I wished; but then one must rat--that's abore. I will consult Lilburne. Humph!"

The servant re-appeared. "Sir, he says he does belong to the county. "

"Show him in!--What sort of a person?"

"A sort of gentleman, sir; that is, " continued the butler, mindful offive shillings just slipped within his palm by the stranger, "quite thegentleman. "

"More wine, then-stir up the fire. "

In a few moments the visitor was ushered into the apartment. He wasa man between fifty and sixty, but still aiming at the appearance ofyouth. His dress evinced military pretensions; consisting of a bluecoat, buttoned up to the chin, a black stock, loose trousers of thefashion called Cossacks, and brass spurs. He wore a wig, of greatluxuriance in curl and rich auburn in hue; with large whiskers of thesame colour slightly tinged with grey at the roots. By the imperfectlight of the room it was not perceptible that the clothes were somewhatthreadbare, and that the boots, cracked at the side, admitted glimpsesof no very white hosiery within. Mr. Beaufort, reluctantly rising fromhis repose and gladly sinking back to it, motioned to a chair, and puton a doleful and doubtful semi-smile of welcome. The servant placed thewine and glasses before the stranger;--the host and visitor were alone. 

"So, sir, " said Mr. Beaufort, languidly, "you are from ------shire; Isuppose about the canal, --may I offer you a glass of wine?"

"Most hauppy, sir--your health!" and the stranger, with evidentsatisfaction, tossed off a bumper to so complimentary a toast. 

"About the canal?" repeated Mr. Beaufort. 

"No, sir, no! You parliament gentlemen must hauve a vaust deal oftrouble on your haunds--very foine property I understaund yours is, sir. Sir, allow me to drink the health of your good lady!"

"I thank you, Mr. --, Mr. --, what did you say your name was?--I beg you athousand pardons. "

"No offaunce in the least, sir; no ceremony with me--this is perticlergood madeira!"

"May I ask how I can serve you?" said Mr. Beaufort, struggling betweenthe sense of annoyance and the fear to be uncivil. "And pray, had I thehonour of your vote in the last election!"

"No, sir, no! It's mauny years since I have been in your part of theworld, though I was born there. "

"Then I don't exactly see--" began Mr. Beaufort, and stopped withdignity. 

"Why I call on you, " put in the stranger, tapping his boots with hiscane; and then recognising the rents, he thrust both feet under thetable. 

"I don't say that; but at this hour I am seldom at leisure--not but whatI am always at the service of a constituent, that is, a voter! Mr. --, Ibeg your pardon, I did not catch your name. "

"Sir, " said the stranger, helping himself to a third glass of wine;"here's a health to your young folk! And now to business. " Here thevisitor, drawing his chair nearer to his host, assuming a more graveaspect, and dropping something of his stilted pronunciation, continued, "You had a brother?"

"Well, sir, " said Mr. Beaufort, with a very changed countenance. 

"And that brother had a wife!"

Had a cannon gone off in the ear of Mr. Robert Beaufort, it could nothave shocked or stunned him more than that simple word with which hiscompanion closed his sentence. He fell back in his chair--his lipsapart, his eyes fixed on the stranger. He sought to speak, but histongue clove to his mouth. 

"That wife had two sons, born in wedlock!"

"It is false!" cried Mr. Beaufort, finding a voice at length, andspringing to his feet. "And who are you, sir? and what do you mean by--"

"Hush!" said the stranger, perfectly unconcerned, and regaining thedignity of his haw-haw enunciation, "better not let the servants hearaunything. For my pawt, I think servants hauve the longest pair of earsof auny persons, not excepting jauckasses; their ears stretch from thepauntry to the parlour. Hush, sir!--perticler good madeira, this!"

"Sir!" said Mr. Beaufort, struggling to preserve, or rather recover, histemper, "your conduct is exceedingly strange; but allow me to say thatyou are wholly misinformed. My brother never did marry; and if you haveanything to say on behalf of those young men--his natural sons--I referyou to my solicitor, Mr. Blackwell, of Lincoln's Inn. I wish you a goodevening. "

"Sir!--the same to you--I won't trouble you auny farther; it was onlyout of koindness I called--I am not used to be treated so--sir, I amin his maujesty's service--sir, you will foind that the witness of themarriage is forthcoming; you will think of me then, and, perhaps, be sorry. But I've done, 'Your most obedient humble, sir!'" And thestranger, with a flourish of his hand, turned to the door. At the sightof this determination on the part of his strange guest, a cold, uneasy, vague presentiment seized Mr. Beaufort. There, not flashed, but ratherfroze, across him the recollection of his brother's emphatic butdisbelieved assurances--of Catherine's obstinate assertion of her son'salleged rights--rights which her lawsuit, undertaken on her own behalf, had not compromised;--a fresh lawsuit might be instituted by the son, and the evidence which had been wanting in the former suit might befound at last. With this remembrance and these reflections came ahorrible train of shadowy fears, --witnesses, verdict, surrender, spoliation--arrears--ruin!

The man, who had gained the door, turned back and looked at him with acomplacent, half-triumphant leer upon his impudent, reckless face. 

"Sir, " then said Mr. Beaufort, mildly, "I repeat that you had better seeMr. Blackwell. "

The tempter saw his triumph. "I have a secret to communicate which it isbest for you to keep snug. How mauny people do you wish me to see aboutit? Come, sir, there is no need of a lawyer; or, if you think so, tellhim yourself. Now or never, Mr. Beaufort. "

"I can have no objection to hear anything you have to say, sir, " saidthe rich man, yet more mildly than before; and then added, with a forcedsmile, "though my rights are already too confirmed to admit of a doubt. "

Without heeding the last assertion, the stranger coolly walked back, resumed his seat, and, placing both arms on the table and looking Mr. Beaufort full in the face, thus proceeded, --

"Sir, of the marriage between Philip Beaufort and Catherine Morton therewere two witnesses: the one is dead, the other went abroad--the last isalive still!"

"If so, " said Mr. Beaufort, who, not naturally deficient in cunning andsense, felt every faculty now prodigiously sharpened, and was resolvedto know the precise grounds for alarm, --"if so, why did not the man--itwas a servant, sir, a man-servant, whom Mrs. Morton pretended to relyon--appear on the trial?"

"Because, I say, he was abroad and could not be found; or, the searchafter him miscaurried, from clumsy management and a lack of the rhino. "

"Hum!" said Mr. Beaufort--"one witness--one witness, observe, there isonly one!--does not alarm me much. It is not what a man deposes, it iswhat a jury believe, sir! Moreover, what has become of the young men?They have never been heard of for years. They are probably dead; if so, I am heir-at-law!"

"I know where one of them is to be found at all events. "

"The elder?--Philip?" asked Mr. Beaufort anxiously, and with a fearfulremembrance of the energetic and vehement character prematurelyexhibited by his nephew. 

"Pawdon me! I need not aunswer that question. "

"Sir! a lawsuit of this nature, against one in possession, is verydoubtful, and, " added the rich man, drawing himself up--"and, perhapsvery expensive!"

"The young man I speak of does not want friends, who will not grudge themoney. "

"Sir!" said Mr. Beaufort, rising and placing his back to the fire--"sir!what is your object in this communication? Do you come, on the part ofthe young man, to propose a compromise? If so, be plain!"

"I come on my own pawt. It rests with you to say if the young men shallnever know it!"

"And what do you want?"

"Five hundred a year as long as the secret is kept. "

"And how can you prove that there is a secret, after all?"

"By producing the witness if you wish. "

"Will he go halves in the L500. A year?" asked Mr. Beaufort artfully. 

"That is moy affair, sir, " replied the stranger. 

"What you say, " resumed Mr. Beaufort, "is so extraordinary--sounexpected, and still, to me, seems so improbable, that I must have timeto consider. If you will call on me in a week, and produce your facts, Iwill give you my answer. I am not the man, sir, to wish to keep anyone out of his true rights, but I will not yield, on the other hand, toimposture. "

"If you don't want to keep them out of their rights, I'd best go andtell my young gentlemen, " said the stranger, with cool impudence. 

"I tell you I must have time, " repeated Beaufort, disconcerted. "Besides, I have not myself alone to look to, sir, " he added, withdignified emphasis--"I am a father!"

"This day week I will call on you again. Good evening, Mr. Beaufort!"

And the man stretched out his hand with an air of amicablecondescension. The respectable Mr. Beaufort changed colour, hesitated, and finally suffered two fingers to be enticed into the grasp of thevisitor, whom he ardently wished at that bourne whence no visitorreturns. 

The stranger smiled, stalked to the door, laid his finger on his lip, winked knowingly, and vanished, leaving Mr. Beaufort a prey to suchfeelings of uneasiness, dread, and terror, as may be experienced by aman whom, on some inch or two of slippery rock, the tides have suddenlysurrounded. 

He remained perfectly still for some moments, and then glancing roundthe dim and spacious room, his eyes took in all the evidences of luxuryand wealth which it betrayed. Above the huge sideboard, that on festivedays groaned beneath the hoarded weight of the silver heirlooms of theBeauforts, hung, in its gilded frame, a large picture of the familyseat, with the stately porticoes--the noble park--the groups ofdeer; and around the wall, interspersed here and there with ancestralportraits of knight and dame, long since gathered to their rest, wereplaced masterpieces of the Italian and Flemish art, which generationafter generation had slowly accumulated, till the Beaufort Collectionhad become the theme of connoisseurs and the study of young genius. 

The still room, the dumb pictures--even the heavy sideboard seemed togain voice, and speak to him audibly. He thrust his hand into the foldsof his waistcoat, and griped his own flesh convulsively; then, stridingto and fro the apartment, he endeavoured to re-collect his thoughts. 

"I dare not consult Mrs. Beaufort, " he muttered; "no--no, --she is afool! Besides, she's not in the way. No time to lose--I will go toLilburne. "

Scarce had that thought crossed him than he hastened to put it intoexecution. He rang for his hat and gloves and sallied out on footto Lord Lilburne's house in Park Lane, --the distance was short, andimpatience has long strides. 

He knew Lord Lilburne was in town, for that personage loved London forits own sake; and even in September he would have said with the old Dukeof Queensberry, when some one observed that London was very empty--"Yes;but it is fuller than the country. "

Mr. Beaufort found Lord Lilburne reclined on a sofa, by the openwindow of his drawing-room, beyond which the early stars shone upon theglimmering trees and silver turf of the deserted park. Unlike the simpledessert of his respectable brother-in-law, the costliest fruits, therichest wines of France, graced the small table placed beside his sofa;and as the starch man of forms and method entered the room at one door, a rustling silk, that vanished through the aperture of another, seemedto betray tokens of a tete-a-tete, probably more agreeable to Lilburnethan the one with which only our narrative is concerned. 

It would have been a curious study for such men as love to gaze upon thedark and wily features of human character, to have watched thecontrast between the reciter and the listener, as Beaufort, with muchcircumlocution, much affected disdain and real anxiety, narrated thesingular and ominous conversation between himself and his visitor. 

The servant, in introducing Mr. Beaufort, had added to the light of theroom; and the candles shone full on the face and form of Mr. Beaufort. All about that gentleman was so completely in unison with the world'sforms and seemings, that there was something moral in the very sightof him! Since his accession of fortune he had grown less pale and lessthin; the angles in his figure were filled up. On his brow there wasno trace of younger passion. No able vice had ever sharpened theexpression--no exhausting vice ever deepened the lines. He was thebeau-ideal of a county member, --so sleek, so staid, so business-like;yet so clean, so neat, so much the gentleman. And now there was a kindof pathos in his grey hairs, his nervous smile, his agitated hands, hisquick and uneasy transition of posture, the tremble of his voice. Hewould have appeared to those who saw, but heard not, The Good Man introuble. Cold, motionless, speechless, seemingly apathetic, but in truthobservant, still reclined on the sofa, his head thrown back, but oneeye fixed on his companion, his hands clasped before him, Lord Lilburnelistened; and in that repose, about his face, even about his person, might be read the history of how different a life and character! Whatnative acuteness in the stealthy eye! What hardened resolve in the fullnostril and firm lips! What sardonic contempt for all things in theintricate lines about the mouth. What animal enjoyment of all things sodespised in that delicate nervous system, which, combined with originalvigour of constitution, yet betrayed itself in the veins on the handsand temples, the occasional quiver of the upper lip! His was the frameabove all others the most alive to pleasure--deep-chested, compact, sinewy, but thin to leanness--delicate in its texture and extremities, almost to effeminacy. The indifference of the posture, the very habitof the dress--not slovenly, indeed, but easy, loose, careless--seemed tospeak of the man's manner of thought and life--his profound disdain ofexternals. 

Not till Beaufort had concluded did Lord Lilburne change his position oropen his lips; and then, turning to his brother-in-law his calm face, hesaid drily, --

"I always thought your brother had married that woman; he was the sortof man to do it. Besides, why should she have gone to law without avestige of proof, unless she was convinced of her rights? Imposturenever proceeds without some evidence. Innocence, like a fool as it is, fancies it has only to speak to be believed. But there is no cause foralarm. "

"No cause!--And yet you think there was a marriage. "

"It is quite clear, " continued Lilburne, without heeding thisinterruption; "that the man, whatever his evidence, has not gotsufficient proofs. If he had, he would go to the young men rather thanyou: it is evident that they would promise infinitely larger rewardsthan he could expect from yourself. Men are always more generous withwhat they expect than with what they have. All rogues know this. 'Tisthe way Jews and usurers thrive upon heirs rather than possessors; 'tisthe philosophy of post-obits. I dare say the man has found out the realwitness of the marriage, but ascertained, also, that the testimonyof that witness would not suffice to dispossess you. He might bediscredited--rich men have a way sometimes of discreditingpoor witnesses. Mind, he says nothing of the lost copy of theregister--whatever may be the value of that document, which I amnot lawyer enough to say--of any letters of your brother avowing themarriage. Consider, the register itself is destroyed--the clergymandead. Pooh! make yourself easy. "

"True, " said Mr. Beaufort, much comforted; "what a memory you have!"

"Naturally. Your wife is my sister--I hate poor relations--and I wastherefore much interested in your accession and your lawsuit. No--youmay feel--at rest on this matter, so far as a successful lawsuit isconcerned. The next question is, Will you have a lawsuit at all? andis it worth while buying this fellow? That I can't say unless I see himmyself. "

"I wish to Heaven you would!"

"Very willingly: 'tis a sort of thing I like--I'm fond of dealing withrogues--it amuses me. This day week? I'll be at your house--your proxy;I shall do better than Black well. And since you say you are wanted atthe Lakes, go down, and leave all to me. "

"A thousand thanks. I can't say how grateful I am. You certainly are thekindest and cleverest person in the world. "

"You can't think worse of the world's cleverness and kindness than Ido, " was Lilburne's rather ambiguous answer to the compliment. "But whydoes my sister want to see you?"

"Oh, I forgot!--here is her letter. I was going to ask your advice inthis too. "

Lord Lilburne took the letter, and glanced over it with the rapid eye ofa man accustomed to seize in everything the main gist and pith. 

"An offer to my pretty niece--Mr. Spencer--requires no fortune--hisuncle will settle all his own--(poor silly old man!) All! Why that'sonly L1000. A year. You don't think much of this, eh? How my sister caneven ask you about it puzzles me. "

"Why, you see, Lilburne, " said Mr. Beaufort, rather embarrassed, "thereis no question of fortune--nothing to go out of the family; and, really, Arthur is so expensive, and, if she were to marry well, I could not giveher less than fifteen or twenty thousand pounds. "

"Aha!--I see--every man to his taste: here a daughter--there a dowry. You are devilish fond of money, Beaufort. Any pleasure in avarice, --eh?"

Mr. Beaufort coloured very much at the remark and the question, and, forcing a smile, said, --

"You are severe. But you don't know what it is to be father to a youngman. "

"Then a great many young women have told me sad fibs! But you are rightin your sense of the phrase. No, I never had an heir apparent, thankHeaven! No children imposed upon me by law--natural enemies, to countthe years between the bells that ring for their majority, and those thatwill toll for my decease. It is enough for me that I have a brother anda sister--that my brother's son will inherit my estates--and that, inthe meantime, he grudges me every tick in that clock. What then? If hehad been my uncle, I had done the same. Meanwhile, I see as little ofhim as good breeding will permit. On the face of a rich man's heir iswritten the rich man's memento mori! But revenons a nos moutons. Yes, ifyou give your daughter no fortune, your death will be so much the moreprofitable to Arthur!"

"Really, you take such a very odd view of the matter, " said Mr. Beaufort, exceedingly shocked. "But I see you don't like the marriage;perhaps you are right. "

"Indeed, I have no choice in the matter; I never interfere betweenfather and children. If I had children myself, I will, however, tellyou, for your comfort, that they might marry exactly as they pleased--Iwould never thwart them. I should be too happy to get them out of myway. If they married well, one would have all the credit; if ill, onewould have an excuse to disown them. As I said before, I dislike poorrelations. Though if Camilla lives at the Lakes when she is married, itis but a letter now and then; and that's your wife's trouble, not yours. But, Spencer--what Spencer!--what family? Was there not a Mr. Spencerwho lived at Winandermere--who----"

"Who went with us in search of these boys, to be sure. Very likely thesame--nay, he must be so. I thought so at the first. "

"Go down to the Lakes to-morrow. You may hear something about yournephews;" at that word Mr. Beaufort winced. 

"'Tis well to be forearmed. "

"Many thanks for all your counsel, " said Beaufort, rising, and glad toescape; for though both he and his wife held the advice of Lord Lilburnein the highest reverence, they always smarted beneath the quiet andcareless stings which accompanied the honey. Lord Lilburne was singularin this, --he would give to any one who asked it, but especially arelation, the best advice in his power; and none gave better, that is, more worldly advice. Thus, without the least benevolence, he was oftenof the greatest service; but he could not help mixing up the draughtwith as much aloes and bitter-apple as possible. His intellect delightedin exhibiting itself even gratuitously. His heart equally delightedin that only cruelty which polished life leaves to its tyrants towardstheir equals, --thrusting pins into the feelings and breaking self-loveupon the wheel. But just as Mr. Beaufort had drawn on his gloves andgained the doorway, a thought seemed to strike Lord Lilburne:

"By the by, " he said, "you understand that when I promised I would tryand settle the matter for you, I only meant that I would learn the exactcauses you have for alarm on the one hand, or for a compromise withthis fellow on the other. If the last be advisable you are aware that Icannot interfere. I might get into a scrape; and Beaufort Court is notmy property. "

"I don't quite understand you. "

"I am plain enough, too. If there is money to be given it is given inorder to defeat what is called justice--to keep these nephews of yoursout of their inheritance. Now, should this ever come to light, it wouldhave an ugly appearance. They who risk the blame must be the persons whopossess the estate. "

"If you think it dishonourable or dishonest--" said Beaufort, irresolutely. 

"I! I never can advise as to the feelings; I can only advise as to thepolicy. If you don't think there ever was a marriage, it may, still, behonest in you to prevent the bore of a lawsuit. "

"But if he can prove to me that they were married?"

"Pooh!" said Lilburne, raising his eyebrows with a slight expression ofcontemptuous impatience; "it rests on yourself whether or not he proveit to YOUR satisfaction! For my part, as a third person, I am persuadedthe marriage did take place. But if I had Beaufort Court, my convictionswould be all the other way. You understand. I am too happy to serve you. But no man can be expected to jeopardise his character, or coquet withthe law, unless it be for his own individual interest. Then, ofcourse, he must judge for himself. Adieu! I expect some friendsforeigners--Carlists--to whist. You won't join them?"

"I never play, you know. You will write to me at Winandermere: and, atall events, you will keep off the man till I return?"

"Certainly. "

Beaufort, whom the latter part of the conversation had comforted farless than the former, hesitated, and turned the door-handle three orfour times; but, glancing towards his brother-in-law, he saw in thatcold face so little sympathy in the struggle between interest andconscience, that he judged it best to withdraw at once. 

As soon as he was gone, Lilburne summoned his valet, who had livedwith him many years, and who was his confidant in all the adventurousgallantries with which he still enlivened the autumn of his life. 

"Dykeman, " said he, "you have let out that lady?"

"Yes, my lord. "

"I am not at home if she calls again. She is stupid; she cannot getthe girl to come to her again. I shall trust you with an adventure, Dykeman--an adventure that will remind you of our young days, man. Thischarming creature--I tell you she is irresistible--her very odditiesbewitch me. You must--well, you look uneasy. What would you say?"

"My lord, I have found out more about her--and--and----"

"Well, well. "

The valet drew near and whispered something in his master's ear. 

"They are idiots who say it, then, " answered Lilburne. "And, " falteredthe man, with the shame of humanity on his face, "she is not worthy yourlordship's notice--a poor--"

"Yes, I know she is poor; and, for that reason, there can be nodifficulty, if the thing is properly managed. You never, perhaps, heardof a certain Philip, king of Macedon; but I will tell you what he oncesaid, as well as I can remember it: 'Lead an ass with a pannier of gold;send the ass through the gates of a city, and all the sentinels willrun away. ' Poor!--where there is love, there is charity also, Dykeman. Besides--"

Here Lilburne's countenance assumed a sudden aspect of dark and angrypassion, --he broke off abruptly, rose, and paced the room, mutteringto himself. Suddenly he stopped, and put his hand to his hip, as anexpression of pain again altered the character of his face. 

"The limb pains me still! Dykeman--I was scarce twenty-one--when Ibecame a cripple for life. " He paused, drew a long breath, smiled, rubbed his hands gently, and added: "Never fear--you shall be the ass;and thus Philip of Macedon begins to fill the pannier. " And he tossedhis purse into the hands of the valet, whose face seemed to lose itsanxious embarrassment at the touch of the gold. Lilburne glanced at himwith a quiet sneer: "Go!--I will give you my orders when I undress. "

"Yes!" he repeated to himself, "the limb pains me still. But hedied!--shot as a man would shoot a jay or a polecat!

"I have the newspaper still in that drawer. He died an outcast--afelon--a murderer! And I blasted his name--and I seduced hismistress--and I--am John Lord Lilburne!"

About ten o'clock, some half-a-dozen of those gay lovers of London, who, like Lilburne, remain faithful to its charms when more vulgarworshippers desert its sunburnt streets--mostly single men--mostly menof middle age--dropped in. And soon after came three or four high-bornforeigners, who had followed into England the exile of the unfortunateCharles X. Their looks, at once proud and sad--their moustaches curleddownward--their beards permitted to grow--made at first a strongcontrast with the smooth gay Englishmen. But Lilburne, who was fondof French society, and who, when he pleased, could be courteous andagreeable, soon placed the exiles at their ease; and, in the excitementof high play, all differences of mood and humour speedily vanished. Morning was in the skies before they sat down to supper. 

"You have been very fortunate to-night, milord, " said one of theFrenchmen, with an envious tone of congratulation. 

"But, indeed, " said another, who, having been several times his host'spartner, had won largely, "you are the finest player, milord, I everencountered. "

"Always excepting Monsieur Deschapelles and--, " replied Lilburne, indifferently. And, turning the conversation, he asked one of theguests why he had not introduced him to a French officer of merit anddistinction; "With whom, " said Lord Lilburne, "I understand that you areintimate, and of whom I hear your countrymen very often speak. "

"You mean De Vaudemont. Poor fellow!" said a middle-aged Frenchman, of agraver appearance than the rest. 

"But why 'poor fellow!' Monsieur de Liancourt?"

"He was rising so high before the revolution. There was not a braverofficer in the army. But he is but a soldier of fortune, and his careeris closed. "

"Till the Bourbons return, " said another Carlist, playing with hismoustache. 

"You will really honour me much by introducing me to him, " said LordLilburne. "De Vaudemont--it is a good name, --perhaps, too, he plays atwhist. "

"But, " observed one of the Frenchmen, "I am by no means sure that he hasthe best right in the world to the name. 'Tis a strange story. "

"May I hear it?" asked the host. 

"Certainly. It is briefly this: There was an old Vicomte de Vaudemontabout Paris; of good birth, but extremely poor--a mauvais sujet. He hadalready had two wives, and run through their fortunes. Being old andugly, and men who survive two wives having a bad reputation amongmarriageable ladies at Paris, he found it difficult to get a third. Despairing of the noblesse he went among the bourgeoisie with that hope. His family were kept in perpetual fear of a ridiculous mesalliance. Among these relations was Madame de Merville, whom you may have heardof. "

"Madame de Merville! Ah, yes! Handsome, was she not?"

"It is true. Madame de Merville, whose failing was pride, was known morethan once to have bought off the matrimonial inclinations of the amorousvicomte. Suddenly there appeared in her circles a very handsome youngman. He was presented formally to her friends as the son of the Vicomtede Vaudemont by his second marriage with an English lady, brought up inEngland, and now for the first time publicly acknowledged. Some scandalwas circulated--"

"Sir, " interrupted Monsieur de Liancourt, very gravely, "the scandal wassuch as all honourable men must stigmatise and despise--it was only tobe traced to some lying lackey--a scandal that the young man was alreadythe lover of a woman of stainless reputation the very first day that heentered Paris! I answer for the falsity of that report. But that reportI own was one that decided not only Madame de Merville, who was asensitive--too sensitive a person, but my friend young Vaudemont, toa marriage, from the pecuniary advantages of which he was toohigh-spirited not to shrink. "

"Well, " said Lord Lilburne, "then this young De Vaudemont married Madamede Merville?"

"No, " said Liancourt somewhat sadly, "it was not so decreed; forVaudemont, with a feeling which belongs to a gentleman, and which Ihonour, while deeply and gratefully attached to Madame de Merville, desired that he might first win for himself some honourable distinctionbefore he claimed a hand to which men of fortunes so much higher hadaspired in vain. I am not ashamed, " he added, after a slight pause, "tosay that I had been one of the rejected suitors, and that I still reverethe memory of Eugenie de Merville. The young man, therefore, was to haveentered my regiment. Before, however, he had joined it, and while yetin the full flush of a young man's love for a woman formed to excite thestrongest attachment, she--she---" The Frenchman's voice trembled, andhe resumed with affected composure: "Madame de Merville, who had thebest and kindest heart that ever beat in a human breast, learned one daythat there was a poor widow in the garret of the hotel she inhabited whowas dangerously ill--without medicine and without food--having losther only friend and supporter in her husband some time before. Inthe impulse of the moment, Madame de Merville herself attended thiswidow--caught the fever that preyed upon her--was confined to her bedten days--and died as she had lived, in serving others and forgettingself. --And so much, sir, for the scandal you spoke of!"

"A warning, " observed Lord Lilburne, "against trifling with one's healthby that vanity of parading a kind heart, which is called charity. Ifcharity, mon cher, begins at home, it is in the drawing-room, not thegarret!"

The Frenchman looked at his host in some disdain, bit his lip, and wassilent. 

"But still, " resumed Lord Lilburne, "still it is so probable that yourold vicomte had a son; and I can so perfectly understand why he did notwish to be embarrassed with him as long as he could help it, that Ido not understand why there should be any doubt of the younger DeVaudemont's parentage. "

"Because, " said the Frenchman who had first commenced thenarrative, --"because the young man refused to take the legal stepsto proclaim his birth and naturalise himself a Frenchman; because, nosooner was Madame de Merville dead than he forsook the father he had sonewly discovered--forsook France, and entered with some other officers, under the brave, in the service of one of the native princes of India. "

"But perhaps he was poor, " observed Lord Lilburne. "A father is a verygood thing, and a country is a very good thing, but still a man musthave money; and if your father does not do much for you, somehow orother, your country generally follows his example. "

"My lord, " said Liancourt, "my friend here has forgotten to say thatMadame de Merville had by deed of gift; (though unknown to her lover), before her death, made over to young Vaudemont the bulk of her fortune;and that, when he was informed of this donation after her decease, andsufficiently recovered from the stupor of his grief, he summoned herrelations round him, declared that her memory was too dear to him forwealth to console him for her loss, and reserving to himself but amodest and bare sufficiency for the common necessaries of a gentleman, he divided the rest amongst them, and repaired to the East; not only toconquer his sorrow by the novelty and stir of an exciting life, but tocarve out with his own hand the reputation of an honourable and braveman. My friend remembered the scandal long buried--he forgot thegenerous action. "

"Your friend, you see, my dear Monsieur de Liancourt, " remarkedLilburne, "is more a man of the world than you are!"

"And I was just going to observe, " said the friend thus referred to, "that that very action seemed to confirm the rumour that there had beensome little manoeuvring as to this unexpected addition to the name of DeVaudemont; for, if himself related to Madame de Merville, why have suchscruples to receive her gift?"

"A very shrewd remark, " said Lord Lilburne, looking with some respect atthe speaker; "and I own that it is a very unaccountable proceeding, andone of which I don't think you or I would ever have been guilty. Well, and the old Vicomte?"

"Did not live long!" said the Frenchman, evidently gratified by hishost's compliment, while Liancourt threw himself back in his chair ingrave displeasure. "The young man remained some years in India, and whenhe returned to Paris, our friend here, Monsieur de Liancourt (then infavour with Charles X. ), and Madame de Merville's relations took himup. He had already acquired a reputation in this foreign service, and heobtained a place at the court, and a commission in the king's guards. I allow that he would certainly have made a career, had it not been forthe Three Days. As it is, you see him in London, like the rest of us, anexile!"

"And I suppose, without a sous. "

"No, I believe that he had still saved, and even augmented, in India, the portion he allotted to himself from Madame de Merville's bequest. "

"And if he don't play whist, he ought to play it, " said Lilburne. "Youhave roused my curiosity; I hope you will let me make his acquaintance, Monsieur de Liancourt. I am no politician, but allow me to propose thistoast, 'Success to those who have the wit to plan, and the strength toexecute. ' In other words, 'the Right Divine!'"

Soon afterwards the guests retired. 

CHAPTER IV. 

"Ros. Happily, he's the second time come to them. "--Hamlet. 

It was the evening after that in which the conversations recorded inour last chapter were held;--evening in the quiet suburb of H------. Thedesertion and silence of the metropolis in September had extended toits neighbouring hamlets;--a village in the heart of the country couldscarcely have seemed more still; the lamps were lighted, many of theshops already closed, a few of the sober couples and retired spinstersof the place might, here and there, be seen slowly wanderinghomeward after their evening walk: two or three dogs, in spite of theprohibitions of the magistrates placarded on the walls, --(manifestoeswhich threatened with death the dogs, and predicted more than ordinarymadness to the public, )--were playing in the main road, disturbed fromtime to time as the slow coach, plying between the city and the suburb, crawled along the thoroughfare, or as the brisk mails whirled rapidlyby, announced by the cloudy dust and the guard's lively horn. Graduallyeven these evidences of life ceased--the saunterers disappeared, themails had passed, the dogs gave place to the later and more stealthyperambulations of their feline successors "who love the moon. " Atunfrequent intervals, the more important shops--the linen-drapers', thechemists', and the gin-palace--still poured out across the shadowyroad their streams of light from windows yet unclosed: but with theseexceptions, the business of the place stood still. 

At this time there emerged from a milliner's house (shop, to outwardappearance, it was not, evincing its gentility and its degree above theCapelocracy, to use a certain classical neologism, by a brass plate onan oak door, whereon was graven, "Miss Semper, Milliner and Dressmaker, from Madame Devy, ")--at this time, I say, and from this house thereemerged the light and graceful form of a young female. She held in herleft hand a little basket, of the contents of which (for it was empty)she had apparently just disposed; and, as she stepped across theroad, the lamplight fell on a face in the first bloom of youth, andcharacterised by an expression of childlike innocence and candour. Itwas a face regularly and exquisitely lovely, yet something there wasin the aspect that saddened you; you knew not why, for it was not saditself; on the contrary, the lips smiled and the eyes sparkled. As shenow glided along the shadowy street with a light, quick step, a man, who had hitherto been concealed by the portico of an attorney's house, advanced stealthily, and followed her at a little distance. Unconsciousthat she was dogged, and seemingly fearless of all danger, the girl wentlightly on, swinging her basket playfully to and fro, and chaunting, ina low but musical tone, some verses that seemed rather to belong to thenursery than to that age which the fair singer had attained. 

As she came to an angle which the main street formed with a lane, narrowand partially lighted, a policeman, stationed there, looked hard at her, and then touched his hat with an air of respect, in which there seemedalso a little of compassion. 

"Good night to you, " said the girl, passing him, and with a frank, gaytone. 

"Shall I attend you home, Miss?" said the man. 

"What for? I am very well!" answered the young woman, with an accent andlook of innocent surprise. 

Just at this time the man, who had hitherto followed her, gained thespot, and turned down the lane. 

"Yes, " replied the policeman; "but it is getting dark, Miss. "

"So it is every night when I walk home, unless there's amoon. --Good-bye. --The moon, " she repeated to herself, as she walked on, "I used to be afraid of the moon when I was a little child;" and then, after a pause, she murmured, in a low chaunt:

 "'The moon she is a wandering ghost, That walks in penance nightly; How sad she is, that wandering moon, For all she shines so brightly!

 "'I watched her eyes when I was young, Until they turned my brain, And now I often weep to think 'Twill ne'er be right again. '"

As the murmur of these words died at a distance down the lane in whichthe girl had disappeared, the policeman, who had paused to listen, shookhis head mournfully, and said, while he moved on, --

"Poor thing! they should not let her always go about by herself; andyet, who would harm her?"

Meanwhile the girl proceeded along the lane, which was skirted by small, but not mean houses, till it terminated in a cross-stile that admittedinto a church yard. Here hung the last lamp in the path, and a fewdint stars broke palely over the long grass, and scattered gravestones, without piercing the deep shadow which the church threw over a largeportion of the sacred ground. Just as she passed the stile, the man, whom we have before noticed, and who had been leaning, as if waiting forsome one, against the pales, approached, and said gently, --

"Ah, Miss! it is a lone place for one so beautiful as you are to bealone. You ought never to be on foot. "

The girl stopped, and looked full, but without any alarm in her eyes, into the man's face. 

"Go away!" she said, with a half-peevish, half-kindly tone of command. "I don't know you. "

"But I have been sent to speak to you by one who does know you, Miss--one who loves you to distraction--he has seen you before at Mrs. West's. He is so grieved to think you should walk--you ought, he says, to have every luxury--that he has sent his carriage for you. It is onthe other side of the yard. Do come now;" and he laid his hand, thoughvery lightly, on her arm. 

"At Mrs. West's!" she said; and, for the first time, her voice and lookshowed fear. "Go away directly! How dare you touch me!"

"But, my dear Miss, you have no idea how my employer loves you, and howrich he is. See, he has sent you all this money; it is gold--real gold. You may have what you like, if you will but come. Now, don't be silly, Miss. " The girl made no answer, but, with a sudden spring, passedthe man, and ran lightly and rapidly along the path, in an oppositedirection from that to which the tempter had pointed, when inviting herto the carriage. The man, surprised, but not baffled, reached her in aninstant, and caught hold of her dress. 

"Stay! you must come--you must!" he said, threateningly; and, looseninghis grasp on her shawl, he threw his arm round her waist. 

"Don't!" cried the girl, pleadingly, and apparently subdued, turningher fair, soft face upon her pursuer, and clasping her hands. "Be quiet!Fanny is silly! No one is ever rude to poor Fanny!"

"And no one will be rude to you, Miss, " said the man, apparentlytouched; "but I dare not go without you. You don't know what you refuse. Come;" and he attempted gently to draw her back. 

"No, no!" said the girl, changing from supplication to anger, andraising her voice into a loud shriek, "No! I will--"

"Nay, then, " interrupted the man, looking round anxiously, and, witha quick and dexterous movement he threw a large handkerchief over herface, and, as he held it fast to her lips with one hand, he liftedher from the ground. Still violently struggling, the girl contrived toremove the handkerchief, and once more her shriek of terror rang throughthe violated sanctuary. 

At that instant a loud deep voice was heard, "Who calls?" And a tallfigure seemed to rise, as from the grave itself, and emerge from theshadow of the church. A moment more, and a strong gripe was laid on theshoulder of the ravisher. "What is this? On God's ground, too! Releaseher, wretch!"

The man, trembling, half with superstitious, half with bodily fear, letgo his captive, who fell at once at the knees of her deliverer. "Don'tyou hurt me too, " she said, as the tears rolled down her eyes. "I am agood girl-and my grandfather's blind. "

The stranger bent down and raised her; then looking round for theassailant with an eye whose dark fire shone through the gloom, heperceived the coward stealing off. He disdained to pursue. 

"My poor child, " said he, with that voice which the strong assume to theweak--the man to some wounded infant--the voice of tender superiorityand compassion, "there is no cause for fear now. Be soothed. Do you livenear? Shall I see you home?"

"Thank you! That's kind. Pray do!" And, with an infantine confidenceshe took his hand, as a child does that of a grown-up person;--so theywalked on together. 

"And, " said the stranger, "do you know that man? Has he insulted youbefore?"

"No--don't talk of him: ce me fait mal!" And she put her hand to herforehead. 

The French was spoken with so French an accent, that, in some curiosity, the stranger cast his eye over her plain dress. 

"You speak French well. "

"Do I? I wish I knew more words--I only recollect a few. When I am veryhappy or very sad they come into my head. But I am happy now. I likeyour voice--I like you--Oh! I have dropped my basket!"

"Shall I go back for it, or shall I buy you another?"

"Another!--Oh, no! come back for it. How kind you are!--Ah! I see it!"and she broke away and ran forward to pick it up. 

When she had recovered it, she laughed-she spoke to it--she kissed it. 

Her companion smiled as he said: "Some sweetheart has given you thatbasket--it seems but a common basket too. "

"I have had it--oh, ever since--since--I don't know how long! It camewith me from France--it was full of little toys. They are gone--I am sosorry!"

"How old are you?"

"I don't know. "

"My pretty one, " said the stranger, with deep pity in his rich voice, "your mother should not let you go out alone at this hour. "

"Mother!--mother!" repeated the girl, in a tone of surprise. 

"Have you no mother?"

"No! I had a father once. But he died, they say. I did not see him die. I sometimes cry when I think that I shall never, never see him again!But, " she said, changing her accent from melancholy almost to joy, "heis to have a grave here like the other girl's fathers--a fine stone uponit--and all to be done with my money!"

"Your money, my child?"

"Yes; the money I make. I sell my work and take the money to mygrandfather; but I lay by a little every week for a gravestone for myfather. "

"Will the gravestone be placed in that churchyard?" They were now inanother lane; and, as he spoke, the stranger checked her, and bendingdown to look into her face, he murmured to himself, "Is it possible?--itmust be--it must!"

"Yes! I love that churchyard--my brother told me to put flowers there;and grandfather and I sit there in the summer, without speaking. But Idon't talk much, I like singing better:--

 "'All things that good and harmless are Are taught, they say, to sing The maiden resting at her work, The bird upon the wing; The little ones at church, in prayer; The angels in the sky The angels less when babes are born Than when the aged die. '"

And unconscious of the latent moral, dark or cheering, according as weestimate the value of this life, couched in the concluding rhyme, Fannyturned round to the stranger, and said, "Why should the angels be gladwhen the aged die?"

"That they are released from a false, unjust, and miserable world, inwhich the first man was a rebel, and the second a murderer!" mutteredthe stranger between his teeth, which he gnashed as he spoke. 

The girl did not understand him: she shook her head gently, and made noreply. A few moments, and she paused before a small house. 

"This is my home. "

"It is so, " said her companion, examining the exterior of the house withan earnest gaze; "and your name is Fanny. "

"Yes--every one knows Fanny. Come in;" and the girl opened the door witha latch-key. 

The stranger bowed his stately height as he crossed the low thresholdand followed his guide into a little parlour. Before a table on whichburned dimly, and with unheeded wick, a single candle, sat a man ofadvanced age; and as he turned his face to the door, the stranger sawthat he was blind. 

The girl bounded to his chair, passed her arms round the old man's neck, and kissed his forehead; then nestling herself at his feet, and leaningher clasped hands caressingly on his knee, she said, --

"Grandpapa, I have brought you somebody you must love. He has been sokind to Fanny. "

"And neither of you can remember me!" said the guest. 

The old man, whose dull face seemed to indicate dotage, half raisedhimself at the sound of the stranger's voice. "Who is that?" said he, with a feeble and querulous voice. "Who wants me?"

"I am the friend of your lost son. I am he who, ten years go, broughtFanny to your roof, and gave her to your care--your son's last charge. And you blessed your son, and forgave him, and vowed to be a father tohis Fanny. " The old man, who had now slowly risen to his feet, trembledviolently, and stretched out his hands. 

"Come near--near--let me put my hands on your head. I cannot see you;but Fanny talks of you, and prays for you; and Fanny--she has been anangel to me!"

The stranger approached and half knelt as the old man spread his handsover his head, muttering inaudibly. Meanwhile Fanny, pale as death--herlips apart--an eager, painful expression on her face--looked inquiringlyon the dark, marked countenance of the visitor, and creeping towards himinch by inch, fearfully touched his dress--his arms--his countenance. 

"Brother, " she said at last, doubtingly and timidly, "Brother, I thoughtI could never forget you! But you are not like my brother; you areolder;--you are--you are!--no! no! you are not my brother!"

"I am much changed, Fanny; and you too!"

He smiled as he spoke; and the smile-sweet and pitying--thoroughlychanged the character of his face, which was ordinarily stern, grave, and proud. 

"I know you now!" exclaimed Fanny, in a tone of wild joy. "And you comeback from that grave! My flowers have brought you back at last! I knewthey would! Brother! Brother!"

And she threw herself on his breast and burst into passionate tears. Then, suddenly drawing herself back, she laid her finger on his arm, andlooked up at him beseechingly. 

"Pray, now, is he really dead? He, my father!--he, too, was lost likeyou. Can't he come back again as you have done?"

"Do you grieve for him still, then? Poor girl!" said the stranger, evasively, and seating himself. Fanny continued to listen for an answerto her touching question; but finding that none was given, she stoleaway to a corner of the room, and leaned her face on her hands, andseemed to think--till at last, as she so sat, the tears began to flowdown her cheeks, and she wept, but silently and unnoticed. 

"But, sir, " said the guest, after a short pause, "how is this? Fannytells me she supports you by her work. Are you so poor, then? Yet I leftyou your son's bequest; and you, too, I understood, though not rich, were not in want!"

"There was a curse on my gold, " said the old man, sternly. "It wasstolen from us. "

There was another pause. Simon broke it. 

"And you, young man--how has it fared with you? You have prospered, Ihope. "

"I am as I have been for years--alone in the world, without kindred andwithout friends. But, thanks to Heaven, I am not a beggar!"

"No kindred and no friends!" repeated the old man. "No father--nobrother--no wife--no sister!"

"None! No one to care whether I live or die, " answered the stranger, with a mixture of pride and sadness in his voice. "But, as the song hasit--

 "'I care for nobody--no, not I, For nobody cares for me!'"

There was a certain pathos in the mockery with which he repeatedthe homely lines, although, as he did, he gathered himself up, as ifconscious of a certain consolation and reliance on the resources notdependent on others which he had found in his own strong limbs and hisown stout heart. 

At that moment he felt a soft touch upon his hand, and he saw Fannylooking at him through the tears that still flowed. 

"You have no one to care for you? Don't say so! Come and live with us, brother; we'll care for you. I have never forgotten the flowers--never!Do come! Fanny shall love you. Fanny can work for three!"

"And they call her an idiot!" mumbled the old man, with a vacant smileon his lips. 

"My sister! You shall be my sister! Forlorn one--whom even Nature hasfooled and betrayed! Sister!--we, both orphans! Sister!" exclaimed thatdark, stern man, passionately, and with a broken voice; and he openedhis arms, and Fanny, without a blush or a thought of shame, threwherself on his breast. He kissed her forehead with a kiss that was, indeed, pure and holy as a brother's: and Fanny felt that he had leftupon her cheek a tear that was not her own. 

"Well, " he said, with an altered voice, and taking the old man's hand, "what say you? Shall I take up my lodging with you? I have a littlemoney; I can protect and aid you both. I shall be often away--in Londonor else where--and will not intrude too much on you. But you blind, andshe--(here he broke off the sentence abruptly and went on)--you shouldnot be left alone. And this neighbourhood, that burial-place, are dearto me. I, too, Fanny, have lost a parent; and that grave--"

He paused, and then added, in a trembling voice, "And you have placedflowers over that grave?"

"Stay with us, " said the blind man; "not for our sake, but your own. Theworld is a bad place. I have been long sick of the world. Yes! come andlive near the burial-ground--the nearer you are to the grave, the saferyou are;--and you have a little money, you say!"

"I will come to-morrow, then. I must return now. Tomorrow, Fanny, weshall meet again. "

"Must you go?" said Fanny, tenderly. "But you will come again; you knowI used to think every one died when he left me. I am wiser now. Yetstill, when you do leave me, it is true that you die for Fanny!"

At this moment, as the three persons were grouped, each had assumeda posture of form, an expression of face, which a painter of fittingsentiment and skill would have loved to study. The visitor had gainedthe door; and as he stood there, his noble height--the magnificentstrength and health of his manhood in its full prime--contrasted alikethe almost spectral debility of extreme age and the graceful delicacyof Fanny--half girl, half child. There was something foreign in hisair--and the half military habit, relieved by the red riband of theBourbon knighthood. His complexion was dark as that of a Moor, andhis raven hair curled close to the stately head. Thesoldier-moustache--thick, but glossy as silk-shaded the firm lip; andthe pointed beard, assumed by the exiled Carlists, heightened the effectof the strong and haughty features and the expression of the martialcountenance. 

But as Fanny's voice died on his ear, he half averted that proud face;and the dark eyes--almost Oriental in their brilliancy and depth ofshade--seemed soft and humid. And there stood Fanny, in a postureof such unconscious sadness--such childlike innocence; her armsdrooping--her face wistfully turned to his--and a half smile upon thelips, that made still more touching the tears not yet dried upon hercheeks. While thin, frail, shadowy, with white hair and furrowed cheeks, the old man fixed his sightless orbs on space; and his face, usuallyonly animated from the lethargy of advancing dotage by a certainquerulous cynicism, now grew suddenly earnest, and even thoughtful, asFanny spoke of Death!

CHAPTER V. 

 "Ulyss. Time hath a wallet at his back Wherein he puts alms for oblivion. * * Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright. "--Troilus and Cressida. 

I have, not sought--as would have been easy, by a little ingenuityin the earlier portion of this narrative--whatever source of vulgarinterest might be derived from the mystery of names and persons. Asin Charles Spencer the reader is allowed at a glance to detect SidneyMorton, so in Philip de Vaudemont (the stranger who rescued Fanny) thereader at once recognises the hero of my tale; but since neither ofthese young men has a better right to the name resigned than to the nameadopted, it will be simpler and more convenient to designate them bythose appellations by which they are now known to the world. In truth, Philip de Vaudemont was scarcely the same being as Philip Morton. In theshort visit he had paid to the elder Gawtrey, when he consigned Fanny tohis charge, he had given no name; and the one he now took (when, towardsthe evening of the next day he returned to Simon's house) the old manheard for the first time. Once more sunk into his usual apathy, Simon did not express any surprise that a Frenchman should be so wellacquainted with English--he scarcely observed that the name was French. Simon's age seemed daily to bring him more and more to that state whenlife is mere mechanism, and the soul, preparing for its departure, nolonger heeds the tenement that crumbles silently and neglected intoits lonely dust. Vaudemont came with but little luggage (for he hadan apartment also in London), and no attendant, --a single horse wasconsigned to the stables of an inn at hand, and he seemed, as soldiersare, more careful for the comforts of the animal than his own. Therewas but one woman servant in the humble household, who did all the ruderwork, for Fanny's industry could afford it. The solitary servant and thehomely fare sufficed for the simple and hardy adventurer. 

Fanny, with a countenance radiant with joy, took his hand and led him tohis room. Poor child! with that instinct of woman which never desertedher, she had busied herself the whole day in striving to deck thechamber according to her own notions of comfort. She had stolen fromher little hoard wherewithal to make some small purchases, on which theDowbiggin of the suburb had been consulted. And what with flowers on thetable, and a fire at the hearth, the room looked cheerful. 

She watched him as he glanced around, and felt disappointed that hedid not utter the admiration she expected. Angry at last with theindifference which, in fact, as to external accommodation, was habitualto him, she plucked his sleeve, and said, --

"Why don't you speak? Is it not nice?--Fanny did her best. "

"And a thousand thanks to Fanny! It is all I could wish. "

"There is another room, bigger than this, but the wicked woman whorobbed us slept there; and besides, you said you liked the churchyard. See!" and she opened the window and pointed to the church-tower risingdark against the evening sky. 

"This is better than all!" said Vaudemont; and he looked out from thewindow in a silent reverie, which Fanny did not disturb. 

And now he was settled! From a career so wild, agitated, and various, the adventurer paused in that humble resting-nook. But quiet is notrepose--obscurity is not content. Often as, morn and eve, he lookedforth upon the spot, where his mother's heart, unconscious of love andwoe, mouldered away, the indignant and bitter feelings of the wrongedoutcast and the son who could not clear the mother's name swept away thesubdued and gentle melancholy into which time usually softens regret forthe dead, and with which most of us think of the distant past, and theonce joyous childhood!

In this man's breast lay, concealed by his external calm, those memoriesand aspirations which are as strong as passions. In his earlier years, when he had been put to hard shifts for existence, he had found noleisure for close and brooding reflection upon that spoliation of justrights--that calumny upon his mother's name, which had first broughtthe Night into his Morning. His resentment towards the Beauforts, it istrue, had ever been an intense but a fitful and irregular passion. Itwas exactly in proportion as, by those rare and romantic incidents whichFiction cannot invent, and which Narrative takes with diffidence fromthe great Store-house of Real Life, his steps had ascended in the socialladder--that all which his childhood had lost--all which the robbersof his heritage had gained, the grandeur and the power of WEALTH--aboveall, the hourly and the tranquil happiness of a stainless name, becamepalpable and distinct. He had loved Eugenie as a boy loves for the firsttime an accomplished woman. He regarded her, so refined--so gentle--sogifted, with the feelings due to a superior being, with an eternalrecollection of the ministering angel that had shone upon him whenhe stood on the dark abyss. She was the first that had redeemed hisfate--the first that had guided aright his path--the first that hadtamed the savage at his breast:--it was the young lion charmed by theeyes of Una. The outline of his story had been truly given at LordLilburne's. Despite his pride, which revolted from such obligations toanother, and a woman--which disliked and struggled against a disguisewhich at once and alone saved him from the detection of the past and theterrors of the future--he had yielded to her, the wise and the gentle, as one whose judgment he could not doubt; and, indeed, the slanderousfalsehoods circulated by the lackey, to whose discretion, the night ofGawtrey's death, Eugenie had preferred to confide her own honour, ratherthan another's life, had (as Liancourt rightly stated) left Philip nooption but that which Madame de Merville deemed the best, whether forher happiness or her good name. Then had followed a brief season--theholiday of his life--the season of young hope and passion, of brilliancyand joy, closing by that abrupt death which again left him lonely in theworld. 

When, from the grief that succeeded to the death of Eugenie, he woke tofind himself amidst the strange faces and exciting scenes of an Orientalcourt, he turned with hard and disgustful contempt from Pleasure, as aninfidelity to the dead. Ambition crept over him--his mind hardenedas his cheek bronzed under those burning suns--his hardy frame, his energies prematurely awakened, his constitutional disregard todanger, --made him a brave and skilful soldier. He acquired reputationand rank. But, as time went on, the ambition took a higher flight--hefelt his sphere circumscribed; the Eastern indolence that filled up thelong intervals between Eastern action chafed a temper never at rest:he returned to France: his reputation, Liancourt's friendship, and therelations of Eugenie--grateful, as has before been implied, forthe generosity with which he surrendered the principal part of herdonation--opened for him a new career, but one painful and galling. Inthe Indian court there was no question of his birth--one adventurer wasequal with the rest. But in Paris, a man attempting to rise provoked allthe sarcasm of wit, all the cavils of party; and in polished and civillife, what valour has weapons against a jest? Thus, in civilisation, all the passions that spring from humiliated self-love and baffledaspiration again preyed upon his breast. He saw, then, that the more hestruggled from obscurity, the more acute would become research into histrue origin; and his writhing pride almost stung to death his ambition. To succeed in life by regular means was indeed difficult for this man;always recoiling from the name he bore--always strong in the hope yetto regain that to which he conceived himself entitled--cherishing thatpride of country which never deserts the native of a Free State, however harsh a parent she may have proved; and, above all, whateverhis ambition and his passions, taking, from the very misfortunes he hadknown, an indomitable belief in the ultimate justice of Heaven;--he hadrefused to sever the last ties that connected him with his lost heritageand his forsaken land--he refused to be naturalised--to make the namehe bore legally undisputed--he was contented to be an alien. Neither wasVaudemont fitted exactly for that crisis in the social world when themen of journals and talk bustle aside the men of action. He had notcultivated literature, he had no book-knowledge--the world had been hisschool, and stern life his teacher. Still, eminently skilled in thosephysical accomplishments which men admire and soldiers covet, calm andself-possessed in manner, of great personal advantages, of much readytalent and of practised observation in character, he continued to breastthe obstacles around him, and to establish himself in the favour ofthose in power. It was natural to a person so reared and circumstancedto have no sympathy with what is called the popular cause. He was nocitizen in the state--he was a stranger in the land. He had sufferedand still suffered too much from mankind to have that philanthropy, sometimes visionary but always noble, which, in fact, generally springsfrom the studies we cultivate, not in the forum, but the closet. Men, alas! too often lose the Democratic Enthusiasm in proportion as theyfind reason to suspect or despise their kind. And if there were nothopes for the Future, which this hard, practical daily life does notsuffice to teach us, the vision and the glory that belong to the GreatPopular Creed, dimmed beneath the injustice, the follies, and the vicesof the world as it is, would fade into the lukewarm sectarianism oftemporary Party. Moreover, Vaudemont's habits of thought and reasoningwere those of the camp, confirmed by the systems familiar to him in theEast: he regarded the populace as a soldier enamoured of discipline andorder usually does. His theories, therefore, or rather his ignorance ofwhat is sound in theory, went with Charles the Tenth in his excesses, but not with the timidity which terminated those excesses bydethronement and disgrace. Chafed to the heart, gnawed with proud grief, he obeyed the royal mandates, and followed the exiled monarch: his hopesoverthrown, his career in France annihilated forever. But on enteringEngland, his temper, confident and ready of resource, fastened itselfon new food. In the land where he had no name he might yet rebuild hisfortunes. It was an arduous effort--an improbable hope; but the wordsheard by the bridge of Paris--words that had often cheered him in hisexile through hardships and through dangers which it is unnecessary toour narrative to detail--yet rung again in his ear, as he leaped on hisnative land, --"Time, Faith, Energy. "

While such his character in the larger and more distant relationsof life, in the closer circles of companionship many rare andnoble qualities were visible. It is true that he was stern, perhapsimperious--of a temper that always struggled for command; but he wasdeeply susceptible of kindness, and, if feared by those who opposed, loved by those who served him. About his character was that mixture oftenderness and fierceness which belonged, of old, to the descriptions ofthe warrior. Though so little unlettered, Life had taught him a certainpoetry of sentiment and idea--More poetry, perhaps, in the silentthoughts that, in his happier moments, filled his solitude, than in halfthe pages that his brother had read and written by the dreaming lake. Acertain largeness of idea and nobility of impulse often made him actthe sentiments of which bookmen write. With all his passions, he heldlicentiousness in disdain; with all his ambition for the power ofwealth, he despised its luxury. Simple, masculine, severe, abstemious, he was of that mould in which, in earlier times, the successful men ofaction have been cast. But to successful action, circumstance is morenecessary than to triumphant study. 

It was to be expected that, in proportion as he had been familiar witha purer and nobler life, he should look with great and deepself-humiliation at his early association with Gawtrey. He was in thisrespect more severe on himself than any other mind ordinarily just andcandid would have been, --when fairly surveying the circumstances ofpenury, hunger, and despair, which had driven him to Gawtrey's roof, theimperfect nature of his early education, the boyish trust and affectionhe had felt for his protector, and his own ignorance of, and exemptionfrom, all the worst practices of that unhappy criminal. But still, when, with the knowledge he had now acquired, the man looked calmly back, hischeek burned with remorseful shame at his unreflecting companionship ina life of subterfuge and equivocation, the true nature of which, theboy (so circumstanced as we have shown him) might be forgiven for notat that time comprehending. Two advantages resulted, however, from theerror and the remorse: first, the humiliation it brought curbed, in somemeasure, a pride that might otherwise have been arrogant and unamiable, and, secondly, as I have before intimated, his profound gratitude toHeaven for his deliverance from the snares that had beset his youth gavehis future the guide of an earnest and heartfelt faith. He acknowledgedin life no such thing as accident. Whatever his struggles, whatever hismelancholy, whatever his sense of worldly wrong, he never despaired; fornothing now could shake his belief in one directing Providence. 

The ways and habits of Vaudemont were not at discord with those of thequiet household in which he was now a guest. Like most men of strongframes, and accustomed to active, not studious pursuits, he roseearly;--and usually rode to London, to come back late at noon to theirfrugal meal. And if again, perhaps after the hour when Fanny and Simonretired, he would often return to London, his own pass-key re-admittedhim, at whatever time he came back, without disturbing the sleep ofthe household. Sometimes, when the sun began to decline, if the air waswarm, the old man would crawl out, leaning on that strong arm, throughthe neighbouring lanes, ever returning through the lonely burial-ground;or when the blind host clung to his fireside, and composed himself tosleep, Philip would saunter forth along with Fanny; and on the days whenshe went to sell her work, or select her purchases, he always made apoint of attending her. And her cheek wore a flush of pride when she sawhim carrying her little basket, or waiting without, in musing patience, while she performed her commissions in the shops. Though in realityFanny's intellect was ripening within, yet still the surface oftenmisled the eye as to the depths. It was rather that something yet heldback the faculties from their growth than that the faculties themselveswere wanting. Her weakness was more of the nature of the infant's thanof one afflicted with incurable imbecility. For instance, she managedthe little household with skill and prudence; she could calculate in herhead, as rapidly as Vaudemont himself, the arithmetic necessary to hersimple duties; she knew the value of money, which is more than someof us wise folk do. Her skill, even in her infancy so remarkable, in various branches of female handiwork, was carried, not only byperseverance, but by invention and peculiar talent, to a marvellous andexquisite perfection. Her embroidery, especially in what was then morerare than at present, viz. , flowers on silk, was much in request amongthe great modistes of London, to whom it found its way through theagency of Miss Semper. So that all this had enabled her, for years, to provide every necessary comfort of life for herself and her blindprotector. And her care for the old man was beautiful in its minuteness, its vigilance. Wherever her heart was interested, there never seemeda deficiency of mind. Vaudemont was touched to see how much ofaffectionate and pitying respect she appeared to enjoy in theneighbourhood, especially among the humbler classes--even the beggar whoswept the crossings did not beg of her, but bade God bless her as shepassed; and the rude, discontented artisan would draw himself from thewall and answer, with a softened brow, the smile with which the harmlessone charmed his courtesy. In fact, whatever attraction she took fromher youth, her beauty, her misfortune, and her affecting industry, washeightened, in the eyes of the poorer neighbours, by many little traitsof charity and kindness; many a sick child had she tended, and many abreadless board had stolen something from the stock set aside for herfather's grave. 

"Don't you think, " she once whispered to Vaudemont, "that God attends tous more if we are good to those who are sick and hungry?"

"Certainly we are taught to think so. "

"Well, I'll tell you a secret--don't tell again. Grandpapa once saidthat my father had done bad things; now, if Fanny is good to those shecan help, I think that God will hear her more kindly when she prays himto forgive what her father did. Do you think so too? Do say--you are sowise!"

"Fanny, you are wiser than all of us; and I feel myself better andhappier when I hear you speak. "

There were, indeed, many moments when Vaudemont thought that herdeficiencies of intellect might have been repaired, long since, byskilful culture and habitual companionship with those of her own age;from which companionship, however, Fanny, even when at school, hadshrunk aloof. At other moments there was something so absent anddistracted about her, or so fantastic and incoherent, that Vaudemont, with the man's hard, worldly eye, read in it nothing but melancholyconfusion. Nevertheless, if the skein of ideas was entangled, eachthread in itself was a thread of gold. 

Fanny's great object--her great ambition--her one hope--was a tomb forher supposed father. Whether from some of that early religion attachedto the grave, which is most felt in Catholic countries, and which shehad imbibed at the convent; or from her residence so near the burialground, and the affection with which she regarded the spot;--whateverthe cause, she had cherished for some years, as young maidens usuallycherish the desire of the Altar--the dream of the Gravestone. Butthe hoard was amassed so slowly;--now old Gawtrey was attacked byillness;--now there was some little difficulty in the rent; now somefluctuation in the price of work; and now, and more often than all, somedemand on her charity, which interfered with, and drew from, the pioussavings. This was a sentiment in which her new friend sympathiseddeeply; for he, too, remembered that his first gold had bought thathumble stone which still preserved upon the earth the memory of hismother. 

Meanwhile, days crept on, and no new violence was offered to Fanny. Vaudemont learned, then, by little and little--and Fanny's account wasvery confused--the nature of the danger she had run. 

It seemed that one day, tempted by the fineness of the weather upthe road that led from the suburb farther into the country, Fanny wasstopped by a gentleman in a carriage, who accosted her, as she said, very kindly: and after several questions, which she answered with herusual unsuspecting innocence, learned her trade, insisted on purchasingsome articles of work which she had at the moment in her basket, andpromised to procure her a constant purchaser, upon much better termsthan she had hitherto obtained, if she would call at the house of a Mrs. West, about a mile from the suburb towards London. This she promisedto do, and this she did, according to the address he gave her. She wasadmitted to a lady more gaily dressed than Fanny had ever seen a ladybefore, --the gentleman was also present, --they both loaded her withcompliments, and bought her work at a price which seemed about torealise all the hopes of the poor girl as to the gravestone for WilliamGawtrey, --as if his evil fate pursued that wild man beyond the grave, and his very tomb was to be purchased by the gold of the polluter! Thelady then appointed her to call again; but, meanwhile, she met Fannyin the streets, and while she was accosting her, it fortunately chancedthat Miss Semper the milliner passed that way--turned round, looked hardat the lady, used very angry language to her, seized Fanny's hand, ledher away while the lady slunk off; and told her that the said lady was avery bad woman, and that Fanny must never speak to her again. Fannymost cheerfully promised this. And, in fact, the lady, probably afraid, whether of the mob or the magistrates, never again came near her. 

"And, " said Fanny, "I gave the money they had both given to me to MissSemper, who said she would send it back. "

"You did right, Fanny; and as you made one promise to Miss Semper, soyou must make me one--never to stir from home again without me or someother person. No, no other person--only me. I will give up everythingelse to go with you. "

"Will you? Oh, yes. I promise! I used to like going alone, but that wasbefore you came, brother. "

And as Fanny kept her promise, it would have been a bold gallant indeedwho would have ventured to molest her by the side of that stately andstrong protector. 

CHAPTER VI. 

 "Timon. Each thing's a thief The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power Have unchecked theft. 

 The sweet degrees that this brief world affords, To such as may the passive drugs of it Freely command. "--Timon of Athens. 

On the day and at the hour fixed for the interview with the stranger whohad visited Mr. Beaufort, Lord Lilburne was seated in the library ofhis brother-in-law; and before the elbow-chair, on which he lolledcarelessly, stood our old friend Mr. Sharp, of Bow Street notability. 

"Mr. Sharp, " said the peer, "I have sent for you to do me a littlefavour. I expect a man here who professes to give Mr. Beaufort, mybrother-in-law, some information about a lawsuit. It is necessaryto know the exact value of his evidence. I wish you to ascertain allparticulars about him. Be so good as to seat yourself in the porter'schair in the hall; note him when he enters, unobserved yourself--but ashe is probably a stranger to you, note him still more when he leavesthe house; follow him at a distance; find out where he lives, whom heassociates with, where he visits, their names and directions, what hischaracter and calling are;--in a word, everything you can, and reportto me each evening. Dog him well, never lose sight of him--you will behandsomely paid. You understand?"

"Ah!" said Mr. Sharp, "leave me alone, my lord. Been employed before byyour lordship's brother-in-law. We knows what's what. "

"I don't doubt it. To your post--I expect him every moment. "

And, in fact, Mr. Sharp had only just ensconced himself in the porter'schair when the stranger knocked at the door--in another moment he wasshown in to Lord Lilburne. 

"Sir, " said his lordship, without rising, "be so good as to take achair. Mr. Beaufort is obliged to leave town--he has asked me to seeyou--I am one of his family--his wife is my sister--you may be as frankwith me as with him, --more so, perhaps. "

"I beg the fauvour of your name, sir, " said the stranger, adjusting hiscollar. 

"Yours first--business is business. "

"Well, then, Captain Smith. "

"Of what regiment?"

"Half-pay. "

"I am Lord Lilburne. Your name is Smith--humph!" added the peer, lookingover some notes before him. "I see it is also the name of the witnessappealed to by Mrs. Morton--humph!"

At this remark, and still more at the look which accompanied it, thecountenance, before impudent and complacent, of Captain Smith fell intovisible embarrassment; he cleared his throat and said, with a littlehesitation, --

"My lord, that witness is living!"

"No doubt of it--witnesses never die where property is concerned andimposture intended. "

At this moment the servant entered, and placed a little note, quaintlyfolded, before Lord Lilburne. He glanced at it in surprise--opened, andread as follows, in pencil, --

"My LORD, --I knows the man; take caer of him; he is as big a roge asever stept; he was transported some three year back, and unless his timehas been shortened by the Home, he's absent without leve. We usedto call him Dashing Jerry. That ere youngster we went arter, by Mr. Bofort's wish, was a pall of his. Scuze the liberty I take. 

"J. SHARP. "

While Lord Lilburne held this effusion to the candle, and spelled hisway through it, Captain Smith, recovering his self-composure, thusproceeded:

"Imposture, my lord! imposture! I really don't understand. Your lordshipreally seems so suspicious, that it is quite uncomfortable. I am sure itis all the same to me; and if Mr. Beaufort does not think proper to seeme himself, why I'd best make my bow. "

And Captain Smith rose. 

"Stay a moment, sir. What Mr. Beaufort may yet do, I cannot say; butI know this, you stand charged of a very grave offence, and if yourwitness or witnesses--you may have fifty, for what I care--are equallyguilty, so much the worse for them. "

"My lord, I really don't comprehend. "

"Then I will be more plain. I accuse you of devising an infamousfalsehood for the purpose of extorting money. Let your witnesses appearin court, and I promise that you, they, and the young man, Mr. Morton, whose claim they set up, shall be indicted for conspiracy--conspiracy, if accompanied (as in the case of your witnesses) with perjury, of theblackest die. Mr. Smith, I know you; and, before ten o'clock to-morrow, I shall know also if you had his majesty's leave to quit the colonies!Ah! I am plain enough now, I see. "

And Lord Lilburne threw himself back in his chair, and coldlycontemplated the white face and dismayed expression of the crestfallencaptain. That most worthy person, after a pause of confusion, amaze, and fear, made an involuntary stride, with a menacing gesture, towardsLilburne; the peer quietly placed his hand on the bell. 

"One moment more, " said the latter; "if I ring this bell, it is to placeyou in custody. Let Mr. Beaufort but see you here once again--nay, lethim but hear another word of this pretended lawsuit--and you return tothe colonies. Pshaw! Frown not at me, sir! A Bow Street officer is inthe hall. Begone!--no, stop one moment, and take a lesson in life. Neveragain attempt to threaten people of property and station. Around everyrich man is a wall--better not run your head against it. "

"But I swear solemnly, " cried the knave, with an emphasis so startlingthat it carried with it the appearance of truth, "that the marriage didtake place. "

"And I say, no less solemnly, that any one who swears it in a court oflaw shall be prosecuted for perjury! Bah! you are a sorry rogue, afterall!"

And with an air of supreme and half-compassionate contempt, LordLilburne turned away and stirred the fire. Captain Smith mutteredand fumbled a moment with his gloves, then shrugged his shoulders andsneaked out. 

That night Lord Lilburne again received his friends, and amongsthis guests came Vaudemont. Lilburne was one who liked the study ofcharacter, especially the character of men wrestling against the world. Wholly free from every species of ambition, he seemed to reconcilehimself to his apathy by examining into the disquietude, themortification, the heart's wear and tear, which are the lot of theambitious. Like the spider in his hole, he watched with hungry pleasurethe flies struggling in the web; through whose slimy labyrinth he walkedwith an easy safety. Perhaps one reason why he loved gaming was lessfrom the joy of winning than the philosophical complacency with which hefeasted on the emotions of those who lost; always serene, and, exceptin debauch, always passionless, --Majendie, tracing the experiments ofscience in the agonies of some tortured dog, could not be more raptin the science, and more indifferent to the dog, than Lord Lilburne, ruining a victim, in the analysis of human passions, --stoical in thewrithings of the wretch whom he tranquilly dissected. He wished to winmoney of Vaudemont--to ruin this man, who presumed to be more generousthan other people--to see a bold adventurer submitted to the wheelof the Fortune which reigns in a pack of cards;--and all, of course, without the least hate to the man whom he then saw for the first time. On the contrary, he felt a respect for Vaudemont. Like most worldly men, Lord Lilburne was prepossessed in favour of those who seek to rise inlife: and like men who have excelled in manly and athletic exercises, he was also prepossessed in favour of those who appeared fitted for thesame success. 

Liancourt took aside his friend, as Lord Lilburne was talking with hisother guests:--

"I need not caution you, who never play, not to commit yourself to LordLilburne's tender mercies; remember, he is an admirable player. "

"Nay, " answered Vaudemont, "I want to know this man: I have reasons, which alone induce me to enter his house. I can afford to venturesomething, because I wish to see if I can gain something for one dear tome. And for the rest (he muttered)--I know him too well not to be onmy guard. " With that he joined Lord Lilburne's group, and accepted theinvitation to the card-table. At supper, Vaudemont conversed more thanwas habitual to him; he especially addressed himself to his host, andlistened, with great attention, to Lilburne's caustic comments uponevery topic successively started. And whether it was the art of DeVaudemont, or from an interest that Lord Lilburne took in studyingwhat was to him a new character, --or whether that, both men excellingpeculiarly in all masculine accomplishments, their conversation was ofa nature that was more attractive to themselves than to others; it sohappened that they were still talking while the daylight already peeredthrough the window-curtains. 

"And I have outstayed all your guests, " said De Vaudemont, glancinground the emptied room. 

"It is the best compliment you could pay me. Another night we canenliven our tete-a-tete with ecarte; though at your age, and with yourappearance, I am surprised, Monsieur de Vaudemont, that you are fond ofplay: I should have thought that it was not in a pack of cards that youlooked for hearts. But perhaps you are blaze betimes of the beau sexe. "

"Yet your lordship's devotion to it is, perhaps, as great now as ever?"

"Mine?--no, not as ever. To different ages different degrees. At yourage I wooed; at mine I purchase--the better plan of the two: it does nottake up half so much time. "

"Your marriage, I think, Lord Lilburne, was not blessed with children. Perhaps sometimes you feel the want of them?"

"If I did, I could have them by the dozen. Other ladies have been moregenerous in that department than the late Lady Lilburne, Heaven resther!"

"And, " said Vaudemont, fixing his eyes with some earnestness on hishost, "if you were really persuaded that you had a child, or perhaps agrandchild--the mother one whom you loved in your first youth--achild affectionate, beautiful, and especially needing your care andprotection, would you not suffer that child, though illegitimate, tosupply to you the want of filial affection?"

"Filial affection, mon cher!" repeated Lord Lilburne, "needing my careand protection! Pshaw! In other words, would I give board and lodgingto some young vagabond who was good enough to say he was son to LordLilburne?"

"But if you were convinced that the claimant were your son, orperhaps your daughter--a tenderer name of the two, and a more helplessclaimant?"

"My dear Monsieur de Vaudemont, you are doubtless a man of gallantry andof the world. If the children whom the law forces on one are, nine timesout of ten, such damnable plagues, judge if one would father those whomthe law permits us to disown! Natural children are the pariahs of theworld, and I--am one of the Brahmans. "

"But, " persisted Vaudemont, "forgive me if I press the question farther. Perhaps I seek from your wisdom a guide to my own conduct;--suppose, then, a man had loved, had wronged, the mother;--suppose that in thechild he saw one who, without his aid, might be exposed to every cursewith which the pariahs (true, the pariahs!) of the world are toooften visited, and who with his aid might become, as age advanced, hiscompanion, his nurse, his comforter--"

"Tush!" interrupted Lilburne, with some impatience; "I know not how ourconversation fell on such a topic--but if you really ask my opinion inreference to any case in practical life, you shall have it. Look you, then Monsieur de Vaudemont, no man has studied the art of happiness morethan I have; and I will tell you the great secret--have as few ties aspossible. Nurse!--pooh! you or I could hire one by the week a thousandtimes more useful and careful than a bore of a child. Comforter!--a manof mind never wants comfort. And there is no such thing as sorrow whilewe have health and money, and don't care a straw for anybody in theworld. If you choose to love people, their health and circumstances, ifeither go wrong, can fret you: that opens many avenues to pain. Neverlive alone, but always feel alone. You think this unamiable: possibly. I am no hypocrite, and, for my part, I never affect to be anything butwhat I am--John Lilburne. "

As the peer thus spoke, Vaudemont, leaning against the door, contemplated him with a strange mixture of interest and disgust. "AndJohn Lilburne is thought a great man, and William Gawtrey was a greatrogue. You don't conceal your heart?--no, I understand. Wealth and powerhave no need of hypocrisy: you are the man of vice--Gawtrey, the man ofcrime. You never sin against the law--he was a felon by his trade. Andthe felon saved from vice the child, and from want the grandchild (Yourflesh and blood) whom you disown: which will Heaven consider the worseman? No, poor Fanny, I see I am wrong. If he would own you, I would notgive you up to the ice of such a soul:--better the blind man than thedead heart!"

"Well, Lord Lilburne, " said De Vaudemont aloud, shaking off his reverie, "I must own that your philosophy seems to me the wisest for yourself. For a poor man it might be different--the poor need affection. "

"Ay, the poor, certainly, " said Lord Lilburne, with an air ofpatronising candour. 

"And I will own farther, " continued De Vaudemont, "that I have willinglylost my money in return for the instruction I have received in hearingyou converse. "

"You are kind: come and take your revenge next Thursday. Adieu. "

As Lord Lilburne undressed, and his valet attended him, he said to thatworthy functionary, --

"So you have not been able to make out the name of the stranger--the newlodger you tell me of?"

"No, my lord. They only say he is a very fine-looking man. "

"You have not seen him?"

"No, my lord. What do you wish me now to do?"

"Humph! Nothing at this moment! You manage things so badly, you mightget me into a scrape. I never do anything which the law or the police, or even the news papers, can get hold of. I must think of some otherway--humph! I never give up what I once commence, and I never failin what I undertake! If life had been worth what fools trouble itwith--business and ambition--I suppose I should have been a great manwith a very bad liver--ha ha! I alone, of all the world, ever found outwhat the world was good for! Draw the curtains, Dykeman. "

CHAPTER VII. 

 "Org. Welcome, thou ice that sitt'st about his heart No heat can ever thaw thee!"--FORD: Broken Heart. 

 "Nearch. Honourable infamy!"--Ibid. 

 "Amye. Her tenderness hath yet deserved no rigour, So to be crossed by fate!"

 "Arm. You misapply, sir, With favour let me speak it, what Apollo Hath clouded in dim sense!"--Ibid. 

If Vaudemont had fancied that, considering the age and poverty of Simon, it was his duty to see whether Fanny's not more legal, but more naturalprotector were, indeed, the unredeemed and unmalleable egotist whichGawtrey had painted him, the conversation of one night was sufficient tomake him abandon for ever the notion of advancing her claims upon LordLilburne. But Philip had another motive in continuing his acquaintancewith that personage. The sight of his mother's grave had recalled tohim the image of that lost brother over whom he had vowed to watch. And, despite the deep sense of wronged affection with which he yet rememberedthe cruel letter that had contained the last tidings of Sidney, Philip'sheart clung with undying fondness to that fair shape associated with allthe happy recollections of childhood; and his conscience as well as hislove asked him, each time that he passed the churchyard, "Will youmake no effort to obey that last prayer of the mother who consigned herdarling to your charge?" Perhaps, had Philip been in want, or had thename he now bore been sullied by his conduct, he might have shrunk fromseeking one whom he might injure, but could not serve. But though notrich, he had more than enough for tastes as hardy and simple as any towhich soldier of fortune ever limited his desires. And he thought, witha sentiment of just and noble pride, that the name which Eugenie hadforced upon him had been borne spotless as the ermine through the trialsand vicissitudes he had passed since he had assumed it. Sidney couldgive him nothing, and therefore it was his duty to seek Sidney out. Now, he had always believed in his heart that the Beauforts were acquaintedwith a secret which he more and more pined to penetrate. He would, forSidney's sake, smother his hate to the Beauforts; he would not rejecttheir acquaintance if thrown in his way; nay, secure in his change ofname and his altered features, from all suspicion on their part, hewould seek that acquaintance in order to find his brother and fulfilCatherine's last commands. His intercourse with Lilburne wouldnecessarily bring him easily into contact with Lilburne's family. And inthis thought he did not reject the invitations pressed on him. He felt, too, a dark and absorbing interest in examining a man who was inhimself the incarnation of the World--the World of Art--the World asthe Preacher paints it--the hollow, sensual, sharp-witted, self-wrappedWORLD--the World that is all for this life, and thinks of no Future andno God!

Lord Lilburne was, indeed, a study for deep contemplation. A study toperplex the ordinary thinker, and task to the utmost the analysisof more profound reflection. William Gawtrey had possessed no commontalents; he had discovered that his life had been one mistake; LordLilburne's intellect was far keener than Gawtrey's, and he had nevermade, and if he had lived to the age of Old Parr, never would have madea similar discovery. He never wrestled against a law, though he slippedthrough all laws! And he knew no remorse, for he knew no fear. LordLilburne had married early, and long survived, a lady of fortune, thedaughter of the then Premier--the best match, in fact, of his day. Andfor one very brief period of his life he had suffered himself to enterinto the field of politics the only ambition common with men ofequal rank. He showed talents that might have raised one so gifted bycircumstance to any height, and then retired at once into his old habitsand old system of pleasure. "I wished to try, " said he once, "if famewas worth one headache, and I have convinced myself that the man who cansacrifice the bone in his mouth to the shadow of the bone in the wateris a fool. " From that time he never attended the House of Lords, and declared himself of no political opinions one way or the other. Nevertheless, the world had a general belief in his powers, andVaudemont reluctantly subscribed to the world's verdict. Yet he haddone nothing, he had read but little, he laughed at the world to itsface, --and that last was, after all, the main secret of his ascendancyover those who were drawn into his circle. That contempt of the worldplaced the world at his feet. His sardonic and polished indifference, his professed code that there was no life worth caring for but his ownlife, his exemption from all cant, prejudice, and disguise, the frigidlubricity with which he glided out of the grasp of the Conventional, whenever it so pleased him, without shocking the Decorums whose sense isin their ear, and who are not roused by the deed but by the noise, --allthis had in it the marrow and essence of a system triumphant with thevulgar; for little minds give importance to the man who gives importanceto nothing. Lord Lilburne's authority, not in matters of taste alone, but in those which the world calls judgment and common sense, wasregarded as an oracle. He cared not a straw for the ordinary baublesthat attract his order; he had refused both an earldom and the garter, and this was often quoted in his honour. But you only try a man's virtuewhen you offer him something that he covets. The earldom and the garterwere to Lord Lilburne no more tempting inducements than a doll or askipping-rope; had you offered him an infallible cure for the gout, oran antidote against old age, you might have hired him as your lackeyon your own terms. Lord Lilburne's next heir was the son of his onlybrother, a person entirely dependent on his uncle. Lord Lilburne allowedhim L1000. A year and kept him always abroad in a diplomatic situation. He looked upon his successor as a man who wanted power, but notinclination, to become his assassin. 

Though he lived sumptuously and grudged himself nothing, Lord Lilburnewas far from an extravagant man; he might, indeed, be considered close;for he knew how much of comfort and consideration he owed to his money, and valued it accordingly; he knew the best speculations and the bestinvestments. If he took shares in an American canal, you might besure that the shares would soon be double in value; if he purchased anestate, you might be certain it was a bargain. This pecuniary tact andsuccess necessarily augmented his fame for wisdom. 

He had been in early life a successful gambler, and some suspicions ofhis fair play had been noised abroad; but, as has been recently seen inthe instance of a man of rank equal to Lilburne's, though, perhaps, ofless acute if more cultivated intellect, it is long before the pigeonwill turn round upon a falcon of breed and mettle. The rumours, indeed, were so vague as to carry with them no weight. During the middle of hiscareer, when in the full flush of health and fortune, he had renouncedthe gaming-table. Of late years, as advancing age made time more heavy, he had resumed the resource, and with all his former good luck. Themoney-market, the table, the sex, constituted the other occupations andamusements with which Lord Lilburne filled up his rosy leisure. 

Another way by which this man had acquired reputation for ability wasthis, --he never pretended to any branch of knowledge of which he wasignorant, any more than to any virtue in which he was deficient. Honestyitself was never more free from quackery or deception than was thisembodied and walking Vice. If the world chose to esteem him, he did notbuy its opinion by imposture. No man ever saw Lord Lilburne's name in apublic subscription, whether for a new church, or a Bible Society, ora distressed family, no man ever heard of his doing one generous, benevolent, or kindly action, --no man was ever startled by onephilanthropic, pious, or amiable sentiment from those mocking lips. Yet, in spite of all this, John Lord Lilburne was not only esteemed but likedby the world, and set up in the chair of its Rhadamanthuses. In a word, he seemed to Vaudemont, and he was so in reality, a brilliant example ofthe might of Circumstance--an instance of what may be done in the wayof reputation and influence by a rich, well-born man to whom the willa kingdom is. A little of genius, and Lord Lilburne would have made hisvices notorious and his deficiencies glaring; a little of heart, andhis habits would have led him into countless follies and discreditablescrapes. It was the lead and the stone that he carried about him thatpreserved his equilibrium, no matter which way the breeze blew. Butall his qualities, positive or negative, would have availed him nothingwithout that position which enabled him to take his ease in that inn, the world--which presented, to every detection of his want of intrinsicnobleness, the irreproachable respectability of a high name, a splendidmansion, and a rent-roll without a flaw. Vaudemont drew comparisonsbetween Lilburne and Gawtrey, and he comprehended at last, why one was alow rascal and the other a great man. 

Although it was but a few days after their first introduction toeach other, Vaudemont had been twice to Lord Lilburne's, and theiracquaintance was already on an easy footing--when one afternoon as theformer was riding through the streets towards H----, he met the peermounted on a stout cob, which, from its symmetrical strength, pureEnglish breed, and exquisite grooming, showed something of thosesporting tastes for which, in earlier life, Lord Lilburne had beennoted. 

"Why, Monsieur de Vaudemont, what brings you to this part of thetown?--curiosity and the desire to explore?"

"That might be natural enough in me; but you, who know London so well;rather what brings you here?"

"Why I am returned from a long ride. I have had symptoms of a fit ofthe gout, and been trying to keep it off by exercise. I have been toa cottage that belongs to me, some miles from the town--a pretty placeenough, by the way--you must come and see me there next month. I shallfill the house for a battue! I have some tolerable covers--you are agood shot, I suppose?"

"I have not practised, except with a rifle, for some years. "

"That's a pity; for as I think a week's shooting once a year quiteenough, I fear that your visit to me at Fernside may not be sufficientlylong to put your hand in. "

"Fernside!"

"Yes; is the name familiar to you?"

"I think I have heard it before. Did your lordship purchase or inheritit?"

"I bought it of my brother-in-law. It belonged to his brother--a gay, wild sort of fellow, who broke his neck over a six-barred gate; throughthat gate my friend Robert walked the same day into a very fine estate!"

"I have heard so. The late Mr. Beaufort, then, left no children?"

"Yes; two. But they came into the world in the primitive way in whichMr. Owen wishes us all to come--too naturally for the present state ofsociety, and Mr. Owen's parallelogram was not ready for them. Bythe way, one of them disappeared at Paris;-you never met with him, Isuppose?"

"Under what name?"

"Morton. "

"Morton! hem! What Christian name?"

"Philip. "

"Philip! no. But did Mr. Beaufort do nothing for the young men? I thinkI have heard somewhere that he took compassion on one of them. "

"Have you? Ah, my brother-in-law is precisely one of those excellent menof whom the world always speaks well. No; he would very willingly haveserved either or both the boys, but the mother refused all his overturesand went to law, I fancy. The elder of these bastards turned out a sadfellow, and the younger, --I don't know exactly where he is, but no doubtwith one of his mother's relations. You seem to interest yourself innatural children, my dear Vaudemont?"

"Perhaps you have heard that people have doubted if I were a naturalson?"

"Ah! I understand now. But are you going?--I was in hopes you would haveturned back my way, and--"

"You are very good; but I have a particular appointment, and I am nowtoo late. Good morning, Lord Lilburne. " Sidney with one of his mother'srelations! Returned, perhaps, to the Mortons! How had he never beforechanced on a conjecture so probable? He would go at once!--that verynight he would go to the house from which he had taken his brother. Atleast, and at the worst, they might give him some clue. 

Buoyed with this hope and this resolve, he rode hastily to H-----, toannounce to Simon and Fanny that he should not return to them, perhaps, for two or three days. As he entered the suburb, he drew up by thestatuary of whom he had purchased his mother's gravestone. 

The artist of the melancholy trade was at work in his yard. 

"Ho! there!" said Vaudemont, looking over the low railing; "is the tombI have ordered nearly finished?"

"Why, sir, as you were so anxious for despatch, and as it would take along time to get a new one ready, I thought of giving you this, which isfinished all but the inscription. It was meant for Miss Deborah Primme;but her nephew and heir called on me yesterday to say, that as thepoor lady died worth less by L5, 000. Than he had expected, he thoughta handsome wooden tomb would do as well, if I could get rid of this forhim. It is a beauty, sir. It will look so cheerful--"

"Well, that will do: and you can place it now where I told you. "

"In three days, sir. "

"So be it. " And he rode on, muttering, "Fanny, your pious wish will befulfilled. But flowers, --will they suit that stone?"

He put up his horse, and walked through the lane to Simon's. 

As he approached the house, he saw Fanny's bright eyes at the window. She was watching his return. She hastened to open the door to him, andthe world's wanderer felt what music there is in the footstep, whatsummer there is in the smile, of Welcome!

"My dear Fanny, " he said, affected by her joyous greeting, "it makes myheart warm to see you. I have brought you a present from town. WhenI was a boy, I remember that my poor mother was fond of singing somesimple songs, which often, somehow or other, come back to me, when I seeand hear you. I fancied you would understand and like them as well atleast as I do--for Heaven knows (he added to himself) my ear is dullenough generally to the jingle of rhyme. " And he placed in her hands alittle volume of those exquisite songs, in which Burns has set Nature tomusic. 

"Oh! you are so kind, brother, " said Fanny, with tears swimming in hereyes, and she kissed the book. 

After their simple meal, Vaudemont broke to Fanny and Simon theintelligence of his intended departure for a few days. Simon heard itwith the silent apathy into which, except on rare occasions, his lifehad settled. But Fanny turned away her face and wept. 

"It is but for a day or two, Fanny. "

"An hour is very--very long sometimes, " said the girl, shaking her headmournfully. 

"Come, I have a little time yet left, and the air is mild, you have notbeen out to-day, shall we walk--"

"Hem!" interrupted Simon, clearing his throat, and seeming to startinto sudden animation; "had not you better settle the board and lodgingbefore you go?"

"Oh, grandfather!" cried Fanny, springing to her feet, with such a blushupon her face. 

"Nay, child, " said Vaudemont, laughingly; "your grandfather onlyanticipates me. But do not talk of board and lodging; Fanny is as asister to me, and our purse is in common. "

"I should like to feel a sovereign--just to feel it, " muttered Simon, in a sort of apologetic tone, that was really pathetic; and as Vaudemontscattered some coins on the table, the old man clawed them up, chucklingand talking to himself; and, rising with great alacrity, hobbled out ofthe room like a raven carrying some cunning theft to its hiding-place. 

This was so amusing to Vaudemont that he burst out fairly into anuncontrollable laughter. Fanny looked at him, humbled and wondering forsome moments; and then, creeping to him, put her hand gently on his armand said--

"Don't laugh--it pains me. It was not nice in grand papa; but--but, itdoes not mean anything. It--it--don't laugh--Fanny feels so sad!"

"Well, you are right. Come, put on your bonnet, we will go out. "

Fanny obeyed; but with less ready delight than usual. And they tooktheir way through lanes over which hung, still in the cool air, theleaves of the yellow autumn. 

Fanny was the first to break silence. 

"Do you know, " she said, timidly, "that people here think me verysilly?--do you think so too?"

Vaudemont was startled by the simplicity of the question, and hesitated. Fanny looked up in his dark face anxiously and inquiringly. 

"Well, " she said, "you don't answer?"

"My dear Fanny, there are some things in which I could wish you lesschildlike and, perhaps, less charming. Those strange snatches of song, for instance!"

"What! do you not like me to sing? It is my way of talking. "

"Yes; sing, pretty one! But sing something that we can understand, --singthe songs I have given you, if you will. And now, may I ask why you putto me that question?"

"I have forgotten, " said Fanny, absently, and looking down. 

Now, at that instant, as Philip Vaudemont bent over the exceedingsweetness of that young face, a sudden thrill shot through his heart, and he, too, became silent, and lost in thought. Was it possible thatthere could creep into his breast a wilder affection for this creaturethan that of tenderness and pity? He was startled as the idea crossedhim. He shrank from it as a profanation--as a crime--as a frenzy. Hewith his fate so uncertain and chequered--he to link himself with oneso helpless--he to debase the very poetry that clung to the mentaltemperament of this pure being, with the feelings which every fair facemay awaken to every coarse heart--to love Fanny! No, it was impossible!For what could he love in her but beauty, which the very spirit hadforgotten to guard? And she--could she even know what love was? Hedespised himself for even admitting such a thought; and with that ironand hardy vigour which belonged to his mind, resolved to watch closelyagainst every fancy that would pass the fairy boundary which separatedFanny from the world of women. 

He was roused from this self-commune by an abrupt exclamation from hiscompanion. 

"Oh! I recollect now why I asked you that question. There is one thingthat always puzzles me--I want you to explain it. Why does everything inlife depend upon money? You see even my poor grandfather forgot howgood you are to us both, when--when Ah! I don't understand--it pains--itpuzzles me!"

"Fanny, look there--no, to the left--you see that old woman, in rags, crawling wearily along; turn now to the right--you see that fine houseglancing through the trees, with a carriage and four at the gates? Thedifference between that old woman and the owner of that house is--Money;and who shall blame your grandfather for liking Money?"

Fanny understood; and while the wise man thus moralised, the girl, whomhis very compassion so haughtily contemned, moved away to the old womanto do her little best to smooth down those disparities from which wisdomand moralising never deduct a grain! Vaudemont felt this as he saw herglide towards the beggar; but when she came bounding back to him, shehad forgotten his dislike to her songs, and was chaunting, in the gleeof the heart that a kind act had made glad, one of her own impromptumelodies. 

Vaudemont turned away. Poor Fanny had unconsciously decided hisself-conquest; she guessed not what passed within him, but she suddenlyrecollected--what he had said to her about her songs, and fancied himdispleased. 

"Ah I will never do it again. Brother, don't turn away!"

"But we must go home. Hark! the clock strikes seven--I have no time tolose. And you will promise me never to stir out till I return?"

"I shall have no heart to stir out, " said Fanny, sadly; and then in amore cheerful voice, she added, "And I shall sing the songs you likebefore you come back again!"

CHAPTER VIII. 

 "Well did they know that service all by rote;

 Some singing loud as if they had complained, Some with their notes another manner feigned. " CHAUCER: Pie Cuckoo and the Nightingale, modernised by WORDSWORTH. --HORNE's Edition. 

And once more, sweet Winandermere, we are on the banks of thy happylake! The softest ray of the soft clear sun of early autumn trembledon the fresh waters, and glanced through the leaves of the limes andwillows that were reflected--distinct as a home for the Naiads--beneaththe limpid surface. You might hear in the bushes the young blackbirdstrilling their first untutored notes. And the graceful dragon-fly, hiswings glittering in the translucent sunshine, darted to and fro--thereeds gathered here and there in the mimic bays that broke the shelvingmarge of the grassy shore. 

And by that grassy shore, and beneath those shadowy limes, sat the younglovers. It was the very place where Spencer had first beheld Camilla. And now they were met to say, "Farewell!"

"Oh, Camilla!" said he, with great emotion, and eyes that swam in tears, "be firm--be true. You know how my whole life is wrapped up in yourlove. You go amidst scenes where all will tempt you to forget me. Ilinger behind in those which are consecrated by your remembrance, whichwill speak to me every hour of you. Camilla, since you do love me--youdo--do you not?--since you have confessed it--since your parents haveconsented to our marriage, provided only that your love last (for ofmine there can be no doubt) for one year--one terrible year--shall I nottrust you as truth itself? And yet how darkly I despair at times!"

Camilla innocently took the hands that, clasped together, were raised toher, as if in supplication, and pressed them kindly between her own. 

"Do not doubt me--never doubt my affection. Has not my father consented?Reflect, it is but a year's delay!"

"A year!--can you speak thus of a year--a whole year? Not to see--not tohear you for a whole year, except in my dreams! And, if at the end yourparents waver? Your father--I distrust him still. If this delay isbut meant to wean you from me, --if, at the end, there are new excusesfound, --if they then, for some cause or other not now foreseen, stillrefuse their assent? You--may I not still look to you?"

Camilla sighed heavily; and turning her meek face on her lover, said, timidly, "Never think that so short a time can make me unfaithful, anddo not suspect that my father will break his promise. "

"But, if he does, you will still be mine. "

"Ah, Charles, how could you esteem me as a wife if I were to tell you Icould forget I am a daughter?"

This was said so touchingly, and with so perfect a freedom from allaffectation, that her lover could only reply by covering her handwith his kisses. And it was not till after a pause that he continuedpassionately, --

"You do but show me how much deeper is my love than yours. You can neverdream how I love you. But I do not ask you to love me as well--it wouldbe impossible. My life from my earliest childhood has been passed inthese solitudes;--a happy life, though tranquil and monotonous, tillyou suddenly broke upon it. You seemed to me the living form of the verypoetry I had worshipped--so bright--so heavenly--I loved you from thevery first moment that we met. I am not like other men of my age. I haveno pursuit--no occupation--nothing to abstract me from your thought. AndI love you so purely--so devotedly, Camilla. I have never known even apassing fancy for another. You are the first--the only woman--itever seemed to me possible to love. You are my Eve--your presence myparadise! Think how sad I shall be when you are gone--how I shall visitevery spot your footstep has hallowed--how I shall count every momenttill the year is past!"

While he thus spoke, he had risen in that restless agitation whichbelongs to great emotion; and Camilla now rose also, and saidsoothingly, as she laid her hand on his shoulder with tender but modestfrankness:

"And shall I not also think of you? I am sad to feel that you will be somuch alone--no sister--no brother!"

"Do not grieve for that. The memory of you will be dearer to me thancomfort from all else. And you will be true!"

Camilla made no answer by words, but her eyes and her colour spoke. Andin that moment, while plighting eternal truth, they forgot that theywere about to part!

Meanwhile, in a room in the house which, screened by the foliage, wasonly partially visible where the lovers stood, sat Mr. Robert Beaufortand Mr. Spencer. 

"I assure you, sir, " said the former, "that I am not insensible to themerits of your nephew and to the very handsome proposals you make, stillI cannot consent to abridge the time I have named. They are both veryyoung. What is a year?"

"It is a long time when it is a year of suspense, " said the recluse, shaking his head. 

"It is a longer time when it is a year of domestic dissension andrepentance. And it is a very true proverb, 'Marry in haste and repent atleisure. ' No! If at the end of the year the young people continue of thesame mind, and no unforeseen circumstances occur--"

"No unforeseen circumstances, Mr. Beaufort!--that is a new condition--itis a very vague phrase. "

"My dear sir, it is hard to please you. Unforeseen circumstances, " saidthe wary father, with a wise look, "mean circumstances that we don'tforesee at present. I assure you that I have no intention to trifle withyou, and I shall be sincerely happy in so respectable a connexion. "

"The young people may write to each other?"

"Why, I'll consult Mrs. Beaufort. At all events, it must not be veryoften, and Camilla is well brought up, and will show all the letters toher mother. I don't much like a correspondence of that nature. It oftenleads to unpleasant results; if, for instance--"

"If what?"

"Why, if the parties change their minds, and my girl were to marryanother. It is not prudent in matters of business, my dear sir, to putdown anything on paper that can be avoided. "

Mr. Spencer opened his eyes. "Matters of business, Mr. Beaufort!"

"Well, is not marriage a matter of business, and a very grave mattertoo? More lawsuits about marriage and settlements, &c. , than I like tothink of. But to change the subject. You have never heard anything moreof those young men, you say?"

"No, " said Mr. Spencer, rather inaudibly, and looking down. 

"And it is your firm impression that the elder one, Philip, is dead?"

"I don't doubt it. "

"That was a very vexatious and improper lawsuit their mother broughtagainst me. Do you know that some wretched impostor, who, it appears, isa convict broke loose before his time, has threatened me with another, on the part of one of those young men? You never heard anything ofit--eh?"

"Never, upon my honour. "

"And, of course, you would not countenance so villanous an attempt?"

"Certainly not. "

"Because that would break off our contract at once. But you are too mucha gentleman and a man of honour. Forgive me so improper a question. Asfor the younger Mr. Morton, I have no ill-feeling against him. But theelder! Oh, a thorough reprobate! a very alarming character! I could havenothing to do with any member of the family while the elder lived; itwould only expose me to every species of insult and imposition. And nowI think we have left our young friends alone long enough. 

"But stay, to prevent future misunderstanding, I may as well read overagain the heads of the arrangement you honour me by proposing. You agreeto settle your fortune after your decease, amounting to L23, 000. Andyour house, with twenty-five acres one rood and two poles, more or less, upon your nephew and my daughter, jointly--remainder to their children. Certainly, without offence, in a worldly point of view, Camilla might dobetter; still, you are so very respectable, and you speak so handsomely, that I cannot touch upon that point; and I own, that though there is alarge nominal rent-roll attached to Beaufort Court (indeed, there is nota finer property in the county), yet there are many incumbrances, andready money would not be convenient to me. Arthur--poor fellow, a veryfine young man, sir, --is, as I have told you in perfect confidence, alittle imprudent and lavish; in short, your offer to dispense with anydowry is extremely liberal, and proves your nephew is actuated by nomercenary feelings: such conduct prepossesses me highly in your favourand his too. "

Mr. Spencer bowed, and the great man rising, with a stiff affectation ofkindly affability, put his arm into the uncle's, and strolled with himacross the lawn towards the lovers. And such is life-love on the lawnand settlements in the parlour. 

The lover was the first to perceive the approach of the elder parties. And a change came over his face as he saw the dry aspect and markedthe stealthy stride of his future father-in-law; for then there flashedacross him a dreary reminiscence of early childhood; the happy eveningwhen, with his joyous father, that grave and ominous aspect was firstbeheld; and then the dismal burial, the funereal sables, the carriage atthe door, and he himself clinging to the cold uncle to ask him to say aword of comfort to the mother, who now slept far away. "Well, my youngfriend, " said Mr. Beaufort, patronisingly, "your good uncle and myselfare quite agreed--a little time for reflection, that's all. Oh! I don'tthink the worse of you for wishing to abridge it. But papas must bepapas. "

There was so little jocular about that sedate man, that this attemptat jovial good humour seemed harsh and grating--the hinges of that wilymouth wanted oil for a hearty smile. 

"Come, don't be faint-hearted, Mr. Charles. 'Faint heart, '--you know theproverb. You must stay and dine with us. We return to-morrow to town. I should tell you, that I received this morning a letter from my sonArthur, announcing his return from Baden, so we must give him themeeting--a very joyful one you may guess. We have not seen him thesethree years. Poor fellow! he says he has been very ill and the watershave ceased to do him any good. But a little quiet and country air atBeaufort Court will set him up, I hope. "

Thus running on about his son, then about his shooting--about BeaufortCourt and its splendours--about parliament and its fatigues--aboutthe last French Revolution, and the last English election--aboutMrs. Beaufort and her good qualities and bad health--about, in short, everything relating to himself, some things relating to the public, and nothing that related to the persons to whom his conversation wasdirected, Mr. Robert Beaufort wore away half an hour, when the Spencer'stook their leave, promising to return to dinner. 

"Charles, " said Mr. Spencer, as the boat, which the young man rowed, bounded over the water towards their quiet home; "Charles, I dislikethese Beauforts!"

"Not the daughter?"

"No, she is beautiful, and seems good; not so handsome as your poormother, but who ever was?"--here Mr. Spencer sighed, and repeated somelines from Shenstone. 

"Do you think Mr. Beaufort suspects in the least who I am?"

"Why, that puzzles me; I rather think he does. "

"And that is the cause of the delay? I knew it. "

"No, on the contrary, I incline to think he has some kindly feeling toyou, though not to your brother, and that it is such a feeling that madehim consent to your marriage. He sifted me very closely as to what Iknew of the young Mortons--observed that you were very handsome, andthat he had fancied at first that he had seen you before. "

"Indeed!"

"Yes: and looked hard at me while he spoke; and said more than once, significantly, 'So his name is Charles?' He talked about some attemptat imposture and litigation, but that was, evidently, merely inventedto sound me about your brother--whom, of course, he spoke illof--impressing on me three or four times that he would never haveanything to say to any of the family while Philip lived. "

"And you told him, " said the young man, hesitatingly, and with a deepblush of shame over his face, "that you were persuaded--that is, thatyou believed Philip was--was--"

"Was dead! Yes--and without confusion. For the more I reflect, the moreI think he must be dead. At all events, you may be sure that he is deadto us, that we shall never hear more of him. "

"Poor Philip!"

"Your feelings are natural; they are worthy of your excellent heart; butremember, what would have become of you if you had stayed with him!"

"True!" said the brother, with a slight shudder--"a career ofsuffering--crime--perhaps the gibbet! Ah! what do I owe you?"

The dinner-party at Mr. Beaufort's that day was constrained andformal, though the host, in unusual good humour, sought to make himselfagreeable. Mrs. Beaufort, languid and afflicted with headache, saidlittle. The two Spencers were yet more silent. But the younger sat nextto her he loved; and both hearts were full: and in the evening theycontrived to creep apart into a corner by the window, through which thestarry heavens looked kindly on them. They conversed in whispers, withlong pauses between each: and at times Camilla's tears flowed silentlydown her cheeks, and were followed by the false smiles intended to cheerher lover. 

Time did not fly, but crept on breathlessly and heavily. And then camethe last parting--formal, cold--before witnesses. But the lover couldnot restrain his emotion, and the hard father heard his suppressed sobas he closed the door. 

It will now be well to explain the cause of Mr. Beaufort's heightenedspirits, and the motives of his conduct with respect to his daughter'ssuitor. 

This, perhaps, can be best done by laying before the reader thefollowing letters that passed between Mr. Beaufort and Lord Lilburne. 

From LORD LILBURNE to ROBERT BEAUFORT, ESQ. , M. P. 

"DEAR BEAUFORT, --I think I have settled, pretty satisfactorily, youraffair with your unwelcome visitor. The first thing it seemed to menecessary to do, was to learn exactly what and who he was, and with whatparties that could annoy you he held intercourse. I sent for Sharp, theBow Street officer, and placed him in the hall to mark, and afterwardsto dog and keep watch on your new friend. The moment the latter enteredI saw at once, from his dress and his address, that he was a 'scamp;'and thought it highly inexpedient to place you in his power by any moneytransactions. While talking with him, Sharp sent in a billet containinghis recognition of our gentleman as a transported convict. 

"I acted accordingly; soon saw, from the fellow's manner, that he hadreturned before his time; and sent him away with a promise, which youmay be sure he believes will be kept, that if he molest you farther, he shall return to the colonies, and that if his lawsuit proceed, hiswitness or witnesses shall be indicted for conspiracy and perjury. Makeyour mind easy so far. For the rest, I own to you that I think what hesays probable enough: but my object in setting Sharp to watch him isto learn what other parties he sees. And if there be really anythingformidable in his proofs or witnesses, it is with those other parties Iadvise you to deal. Never transact business with the go between, if youcan with the principal. Remember, the two young men are the persons toarrange with after all. They must be poor, and therefore easily dealtwith. For, if poor, they will think a bird in the hand worth two in thebush of a lawsuit. 

"If, through Mr. Spencer, you can learn anything of either of the youngmen, do so; and try and open some channel, through which you can alwaysestablish a communication with them, if necessary. Perhaps, by learningtheir early history, you may learn something to put them into yourpower. 

"I have had a twinge of the gout this morning, and am likely, I fear, tobe laid up for some weeks. 

"Yours truly, "LILBURNE. 

"P. S. --Sharp has just been here. He followed the man who calls himself'Captain Smith' to a house in Lambeth, where he lodges, and from whichhe did not stir till midnight, when Sharp ceased his watch. On renewingit this morning, he found that the captain had gone off, to what placeSharp has not yet discovered. 

"Burn this immediately. "

From ROBERT BEAUFORT, ESQ. , M. P. , to the LORD LILBURNE. 

"DEAR, LILBURNE, --Accept my warmest thanks for your kindness; youhave done admirably, and I do not see that I have anything further toapprehend. I suspect that it was an entire fabrication on that man'spart, and your firmness has foiled his wicked designs. Only think, I have discovered--I am sure of it--one of the Mortons; and he, too, though the younger, yet, in all probability, the sole pretender thefellow could set up. You remember that the child Sidney had disappearedmysteriously, --you remember also, how much that Mr. Spencer hadinterested himself in finding out the same Sidney. Well, --this gentlemanat the Lakes is, as we suspected, the identical Mr. Spencer, and hissoi-disant nephew, Camilla's suitor, is assuredly no other than the lostSidney. The moment I saw the young man I recognised him, for he is verylittle altered, and has a great look of his mother into the bargain. Concealing my more than suspicions, I, however, took care to sound Mr. Spencer (a very poor soul), and his manner was so embarrassed as toleave no doubt of the matter; but in asking him what he had heard ofthe brothers, I had the satisfaction of learning that, in all humanprobability, the elder is dead: of this Mr. Spencer seems convinced. I also assured myself that neither Spencer nor the young man had theremotest connection with our Captain Smith, nor any idea of litigation. This is very satisfactory, you will allow. And now, I hope you willapprove of what I have done. I find that young Morton, or Spencer, ashe is called, is desperately enamoured of Camilla; he seems a meek, well-conditioned, amiable young man; writes poetry;--in short, ratherweak than otherwise. I have demanded a year's delay, to allow mutualtrial and reflection. This gives us the channel for constant informationwhich you advise me to establish, and I shall have the opportunity tolearn if the impostor makes any communication to them, or if there beany news of the brother. If by any trick or chicanery (for I will neverbelieve that there was a marriage) a lawsuit that might be criticalor hazardous can be cooked up, I can, I am sure, make such terms withSidney, through his love for my daughter, as would effectively andpermanently secure me from all further trouble and machinations inregard to my property. And if, during the year, we convince ourselvesthat, after all, there is not a leg of law for any claimant to stand on, I may be guided by other circumstances how far I shall finally acceptor reject the suit. That must depend on any other views we may then formfor Camilla; and I shall not allow a hint of such an engagement to getabroad. At the worst, as Mr. Spencer's heir, it is not so very bad amatch, seeing that they dispense with all marriage portion, &c. --a proofhow easily they can be managed. I have not let Mr. Spencer see thatI have discovered his secret--I can do that or not, according tocircumstances hereafter; neither have I said anything of my discoveryto Mrs. B. , or Camilla. At present, 'Least said soonest mended. ' Iheard from Arthur to-day. He is on his road home, and we hasten to town, sooner than we expected, to meet him. He complains still of his health. We shall all go down to Beaufort Court. I write this at night, thepretended uncle and sham nephew having just gone. But though we startto-morrow, you will get this a day or two before we arrive, as Mrs. Beaufort's health renders short stages necessary. I really do hope thatArthur, also, will not be an invalid, poor fellow! one in a family isquite enough; and I find Mrs. Beaufort's delicacy very inconvenient, especially in moving about and in keeping up one's county connexions. Ayoung man's health, however, is soon restored. I am very sorry to hearof your gout, except that it carries off all other complaints. I amvery well, thank Heaven; indeed, my health has been much better of lateyears: Beaufort Court agrees with me so well! The more I reflect, themore I am astonished at the monstrous and wicked impudence of thatfellow--to defraud a man out of his own property! You are quiteright, --certainly a conspiracy. 

"Yours truly, "R. B. "

"P. S. --I shall keep a constant eye on the Spencers. 

"Burn this immediately. "

After he had written and sealed this letter, Mr. Beaufort went to bedand slept soundly. 

And the next day that place was desolate, and the board on the lawnannounced that it was again to be let. But thither daily, in rain orsunshine, came the solitary lover, as a bird that seeks its young in thedeserted nest:--Again and again he haunted the spot where he had strayedwith the lost one, --and again and again murmured his passionate vowsbeneath the fast-fading limes. Are those vows destined to be ratified orannulled? Will the absent forget, or the lingerer be consoled? Had thecharacters of that young romance been lightly stamped on the fancy whereonce obliterated they are erased for ever, --or were they graven deep inthose tablets where the writing, even when invisible, exists still, andrevives, sweet letter by letter, when the light and the warmth borrowedfrom the One Bright Presence are applied to the faithful record? Thereis but one Wizard to disclose that secret, as all others, --the oldGrave-digger, whose Churchyard is the Earth, --whose trade is to findburial-places for Passions that seemed immortal, --disinterring theashes of some long-crumbling Memory--to hollow out the dark bed ofsome new-perished Hope:--He who determines all things, and prophesiesnone, --for his oracles are uncomprehended till the doom is sealed--Hewho in the bloom of the fairest affection detects the hectic thatconsumes it, and while the hymn rings at the altar, marks with hisjoyless eye the grave for the bridal vow. --Wherever is the sepulchre, there is thy temple, O melancholy Time!

BOOK V. 

CHAPTER I. 

 "Per ambages et ministeria deorum. "--PETRONTUS. 

 [Through the mysteries and ministerings of the gods. ]

Mr. Roger Morton was behind his counter one drizzling, melancholy day. Mr. Roger Morton, alderman, and twice mayor of his native town, was athriving man. He had grown portly and corpulent. The nightly potationsof brandy and water, continued year after year with mechanicalperseverance, had deepened the roses on his cheek. Mr. Roger Morton wasnever intoxicated--he "only made himself comfortable. " His constitutionwas strong; but, somehow or other, his digestion was not as good as itmight be. He was certain that something or other disagreed with him. He left off the joint one day--the pudding another. Now he avoidedvegetables as poison--and now he submitted with a sigh to the doctor'sinterdict of his cigar. Mr. Roger Morton never thought of leavingoff the brandy and water: and he would have resented as the height ofimpertinent insinuation any hint upon that score to a man of so soberand respectable a character. 

Mr. Roger Morton was seated--for the last four years, ever since hissecond mayoralty, he had arrogated to himself the dignity of a chair. Hereceived rather than served his customers. The latter task was left totwo of his sons. For Tom, after much cogitation, the profession ofan apothecary had been selected. Mrs. Morton observed, that it was agenteel business, and Tom had always been a likely lad. And Mr. Rogerconsidered that it would be a great comfort and a great saving to havehis medical adviser in his own son. 

The other two sons and the various attendants of the shop were plyingthe profitable trade, as customer after customer, with umbrellas and inpattens, dropped into the tempting shelter--when a man, meanly dressed, and who was somewhat past middle age, with a careworn, hungry face, entered timidly. He waited in patience by the crowded counter, elbowedby sharp-boned and eager spinsters--and how sharp the elbows ofspinsters are, no man can tell who has not forced his unwelcome waythrough the agitated groups in a linendraper's shop!--the man, I say, waited patiently and sadly, till the smallest of the shopboys turnedfrom a lady, who, after much sorting and shading, had finally decided ontwo yards of lilac-coloured penny riband, and asked, in an insinuatingprofessional tone, --

"What shall I show you, sir?"

"I wish to speak to Mr. Morton. Which is he?"

"Mr. Morton is engaged, sir. I can give you what you want. "

"No--it is a matter of business--important business. " The boy eyed thenapless and dripping hat, the gloveless hands, and the rusty neckclothof the speaker; and said, as he passed his fingers through a profusionof light curls "Mr. Morton don't attend much to business himself now;but that's he. Any cravats, sir?"

The man made no answer, but moved where, near the window, and chattingwith the banker of the town (as the banker tried on a pair of beavergloves), sat still--after due apology for sitting--Mr. Roger Morton. 

The alderman lowered his spectacles as he glanced grimly at the leanapparition that shaded the spruce banker, and said, --

"Do you want me, friend?"

"Yes, sir, if you please;" and the man took off his shabby hat, andbowed low. 

"Well, speak out. No begging petition, I hope?"

"No, sir! Your nephews--"

The banker turned round, and in his turn eyed the newcomer. Thelinendraper started back. 

"Nephews!" he repeated, with a bewildered look. "What does the man mean?Wait a bit. "

"Oh, I've done!" said the banker, smiling. "I am glad to find we agreeso well upon this question: I knew we should. Our member will never suitus if he goes on in this way. Trade must take care of itself. Good dayto You!"

"Nephews!" repeated Mr. Morton, rising, and beckoning to the man tofollow him into the back parlour, where Mrs. Morton sat casting up thewashing bills. 

"Now, " said the husband, closing the door, "what do you mean, my goodfellow?"

"Sir, what I wish to ask you is-if you can tell me what has becomeof--of the young Beau--, that is, of your sister's sons. I understandthere were two--and I am told that--that they are both dead. Is it so?"

"What is that to you, friend?"

"An please you, sir, it is a great deal to them!"

"Yes--ha! ha! it is a great deal to everybody whether they are alive ordead!" Mr. Morton, since he had been mayor, now and then had his joke. "But really--"

"Roger!" said Mrs. Morton, under her breath--"Roger!"

"Yes, my dear. "

"Come this way--I want to speak to you about this bill. " The husbandapproached, and bent over his wife. "Who's this man?"

"I don't know. "

"Depend on it, he has some claim to make-some bills or something. Don'tcommit yourself--the boys are dead for what we know!"

Mr. Morton hemmed and returned to his visitor. 

"To tell you the truth, I am not aware of what has become of the youngmen. "

"Then they are not dead--I thought not!" exclaimed the man, joyously. 

"That's more than I can say. It's many years since I lost sight of theonly one I ever saw; and they may be both dead for what I know. "

"Indeed!" said the man. "Then you can give me no kind of--of--hint like, to find them out?"

"No. Do they owe you anything?"

"It does not signify talking now, sir. I beg your pardon. "

"Stay--who are you?"

"I am a very poor man, sir. "

Mr. Morton recoiled. 

"Poor! Oh, very well--very well. You have done with me now. Goodday--good day. I'm busy. "

The stranger pecked for a moment at his hat--turned the handle of thedoor-peered under his grey eyebrows at the portly trader, who, with bothhands buried in his pockets, his mouth pursed up, like a man about tosay "No" fidgeted uneasily behind Mrs. Morton's chair. He sighed, shookhis head, and vanished. 

Mrs. Morton rang the bell-the maid-servant entered. "Wipe the carpet, Jenny;--dirty feet! Mr. Morton, it's a Brussels!"

"It was not my fault, my dear. I could not talk about family mattersbefore the whole shop. Do you know, I'd quite forgot those poor boys. This unsettles me. Poor Catherine! she was so fond of them. A pretty boythat Sidney, too. What can have become of them? My heart rebukes me. Iwish I had asked the man more. "

"More!--why he was just going to beg. "

"Beg--yes--very true!" said Mr. Morton, pausing irresolutely; and then, with a hearty tone, he cried out, "And, damme, if he had begged, I couldafford him a shilling! I'll go after him. " So saying, he hastened backthrough the shop, but the man was gone--the rain was falling, Mr. Mortonhad his thin shoes on--he blew his nose, and went back to the counter. But, there, still rose to his memory the pale face of his dead sister;and a voice murmured in his ear, "Brother, where is my child?"

"Pshaw! it is not my fault if he ran away. Bob, go and get me the countypaper. "

Mr. Morton had again settled himself, and was deep in a trial formurder, when another stranger strode haughtily into the shop. Thenew-comer, wrapped in a pelisse of furs, with a thick moustache, andan eye that took in the whole shop, from master to boy, from ceiling tofloor, in a glance, had the air at once of a foreigner and a soldier. Every look fastened on him, as he paused an instant, and then walking upto the alderman, said, --

"Sir, you are doubtless Mr. Morton?"

"At your commands, sir, " said Roger, rising involuntarily. 

"A word with you, then, on business. "

"Business!" echoed Mr. Morton, turning rather pale, for he began tothink himself haunted; "anything in my line, sir? I should be--"

The stranger bent down his tall stature, and hissed into Mr. Morton'sforeboding ear:

"Your nephews!"

Mr. Morton was literally dumb-stricken. Yes, he certainly was haunted!He stared at this second questioner, and fancied that there wassomething very supernatural and unearthly about him. He was so tall, andso dark, and so stern, and so strange. Was it the Unspeakable himselfcome for the linendraper? Nephews again! The uncle of the babes in thewood could hardly have been more startled by the demand!

"Sir, " said Mr. Morton at last, recovering his dignity and somewhatpeevishly, --"sir, I don't know why people should meddle with my familyaffairs. I don't ask other folks about their nephews. I have no nephewthat I know of. "

"Permit me to speak to you, alone, for one instant. " Mr. Morton sighed, hitched up his trousers, and led the way to the parlour, where Mrs. Morton, having finished the washing bills, was now engaged in tyingcertain pieces of bladder round certain pots of preserves. The eldestMiss Morton, a young woman of five or six-and-twenty, who was about tobe very advantageously married to a young gentleman who dealt in coalsand played the violin (for N----- was a very musical town), hadjust joined her for the purpose of extorting "The Swiss Boy, withvariations, " out of a sleepy little piano, that emitted a very painfulcry under the awakening fingers of Miss Margaret Morton. 

Mr. Morton threw open the door with a grunt, and the stranger pausingat the threshold, the full flood of sound (key C) upon which "the SwissBoy" was swimming along, "kine" and all, for life and death, came splashupon him. 

"Silence! can't you?" cried the father, putting one hand to his ear, while with the other he pointed to a chair; and as Mrs. Morton lookedup from the preserves with that air of indignant suffering with whichfemale meekness upbraids a husband's wanton outrage, Mr. Roger added, shrugging his shoulders, --

"My nephews again, Mrs. K!"

Miss Margaret turned round, and dropped a courtesy. Mrs. Morton gentlylet fall a napkin over the preserves, and muttered a sort of salutation, as the stranger, taking off his hat, turned to mother and daughter oneof those noble faces in which Nature has written her grant and warrantyof the lordship of creation. 

"Pardon me, " he said, "if I disturb you. But my business will be short. I have come to ask you, sir, frankly, and as one who has a right to askit, what tidings you can give me of Sidney Morton?"

"Sir, I know nothing whatever about him. He was taken from my house, about twelve years since, by his brother. Myself, and the two Mr. Beauforts, and another friend of the family, went in search of themboth. My search failed. "

"And theirs?"

"I understood from Mr. Beaufort that they had not been more successful. I have had no communication with those gentlemen since. But that'sneither here nor there. In all probability, the elder of the boys--who, I fear, was a sad character--corrupted and ruined his brother; and, bythis time, Heaven knows what and where they are. "

"And no one has inquired of you since--no one has asked the brother ofCatherine Morton, nay, rather of Catherine Beaufort--where is the childintrusted to your care?"

This question, so exactly similar to that which his superstitionhad rung on his own ears, perfectly appalled the worthy alderman. Hestaggered back-stared at the marked and stern face that lowered uponhim--and at last cried, --

"For pity's sake, sir, be just! What could I do for one who left me ofhis own accord?--"

"The day you had beaten him like a dog. You see, Mr. Morton, I knowall. "

"And what are you?" said Mr. Morton, recovering his English courage, andfeeling himself strangely browbeaten in his own house;--"What andwho are you, that you thus take the liberty to catechise a man of mycharacter and respectability?"

"Twice mayor--" began Mrs. Morton. 

"Hush, mother!" whispered Miss Margaret, --"don't work him up. "

"I repeat, sir, what are you?"

"What am I?--your nephew! Who am I? Before men, I bear a name that Ihave assumed, and not dishonoured--before Heaven I am Philip Beaufort!"

Mrs. Morton dropped down upon her stool. Margaret murmured "My cousin!"in a tone that the ear of the musical coal-merchant might not havegreatly relished. And Mr. Morton, after a long pause, came up with afrank and manly expression of joy, and said:--

"Then, sir, I thank Heaven, from my heart, that one of my sister'schildren stands alive before me!"

"And now, again, I--I whom you accuse of having corrupted and ruinedhim--him for whom I toiled and worked--him, who was to me, then, as alast surviving son to some anxious father--I, from whom he was reft androbbed--I ask you again for Sidney--for my brother!"

"And again, I say, that I have no information to give you--that--Staya moment-stay. You must pardon what I have said of you before you madeyourself known. I went but by the accounts I had received from Mr. Beaufort. Let me speak plainly; that gentleman thought, right or wrong, that it would be a great thing to separate your brother from you. He mayhave found him--it must be so--and kept his name and condition concealedfrom us all, lest you should detect it. Mrs. M. , don't you think so?"

"I'm sure I'm so terrified I don't know what to think, " said Mrs. Morton, putting her hand to her forehead, and see-sawing herself to andfro upon her stool. 

"But since they wronged you--since you--you seem so very--very--"

"Very much the gentleman, " suggested Miss Margaret. "Yes, so much thegentleman;--well off, too, I should hope, sir, "--and the experiencedeye of Mr. Morton glanced at the costly sables that lined thepelisse, --"there can be no difficulty in your learning from Mr. Beaufortall that you wish to know. And pray, sir, may I ask, did you send anyone here to-day to make the very inquiry you have made?"

"I?--No. What do you mean?"

"Well, well--sit down--there may be something in all this that you maymake out better than I can. "

And as Philip obeyed, Mr. Morton, who was really and honestly rejoicedto see his sister's son alive and apparently thriving, proceeded torelate pretty exactly the conversation he had held with the previousvisitor. Philip listened earnestly and with attention. Who could thisquestioner be? Some one who knew his birth--some one who sought himout?--some one, who--Good Heavens! could it be the long-lost witness ofthe marriage?

As soon as that idea struck him, he started from his seat and entreatedMorton to accompany him in search of the stranger. "You know not, " hesaid, in a tone impressed with that energy of will in which lay thetalent of his mind, --"you know not of what importance this may be tomy prospects--to your sister's fair name. If it should be the witnessreturned at last! Who else, of the rank you describe, would beinterested in such inquiries? Come!"

"What witness?" said Mrs. Morton, fretfully. "You don't mean to comeover us with the old story of the marriage?"

"Shall your wife slander your own sister, sir? A marriage there was--Godyet will proclaim the right--and the name of Beaufort shall be yetplaced on my mother's gravestone. Come!"

"Here are your shoes and umbrella, pa, " cried Miss Margaret, inspired byPhilip's earnestness. 

"My fair cousin, I guess, " and as the soldier took her hand, he kissedthe unreluctant cheek--turned to the door--Mr. Morton placed his arm inhis, and the next moment they were in the street. 

When Catherine, in her meek tones, had said, "Philip Beaufort was myhusband, " Roger Morton had disbelieved her. And now one word from theson, who could, in comparison, know so little of the matter, hadalmost sufficed to convert and to convince the sceptic. Why was this?Because--Man believes the Strong!

CHAPTER II. 

 "--Quid Virtus et quid Sapientia possit Utile proposuit nobis exemplar Ulssem. " HOR. 

 ["He has proposed to us Ulysses as a useful example of how much may be accomplished by Virtue and Wisdom. "]

Meanwhile the object of their search, on quitting Mr. Morton's shop, hadwalked slowly and sadly on, through the plashing streets, till he cameto a public house in the outskirts and on the high road to London. Herehe took shelter for a short time, drying himself by the kitchen fire, with the license purchased by fourpenny-worth of gin; and having learnedthat the next coach to London would not pass for some hours, he finallysettled himself in the Ingle, till the guard's horn should arouse him. By the same coach that the night before had conveyed Philip to N----, had the very man he sought been also a passenger!

The poor fellow was sickly and wearied out: he had settled into a doze, when he was suddenly wakened by the wheels of a coach and the tramplingof horses. Not knowing how long he had slept, and imagining that thevehicle he had awaited was at the door, he ran out. It was a coachcoming from London, and the driver was joking with a pretty barmaid who, in rather short petticoats, was fielding up to him the customary glass. The man, after satisfying himself that his time was not yet come, wasturning back to the fire, when a head popped itself out of the window, and a voice cried, "Stars and garters! Will--so that's you!" At thesound of the voice the man halted abruptly, turned very pale, and hislimbs trembled. The inside passenger opened the door, jumped out witha little carpet-bag in his hand, took forth a long leathern pursefrom which he ostentatiously selected the coins that paid his fare andsatisfied the coachman, and then, passing his arm through that of theacquaintance he had discovered, led him back into the house. 

"Will--Will, " he whispered, "you have been to the Mortons. Nevermoind--let's hear all. Jenny or Dolly, or whatever your sweet praettyname is--a private room and a pint of brandy, my dear. Hot water andlots of the grocery. That's right. "

And as soon as the pair found themselves, with the brandy before them, in a small parlour with a good fire, the last comer went to the door, shut it cautiously, flung his bag under the table, took off his gloves, spread himself wider and wider before the fire, until he had entirelyexcluded every ray from his friend, and then suddenly turning so thatthe back might enjoy what the front had gained, he exclaimed. 

"Damme, Will, you're a praetty sort of a broather to give me the slip inthat way. But in this world every man for his-self!"

"I tell you, " said William, with something like decision in his voice, "that I will not do any wrong to these young men if they live. "

"Who asks you to do a wrong to them?--booby! Perhaps I may be thebest friend they may have yet--ay, or you too, though you're theungratefulest whimsicallist sort of a son of a gun that ever I cameacross. Come, help yourself, and don't roll up your eyes in that way, like a Muggletonian asoide of a Fye-Fye!"

Here the speaker paused a moment, and with a graver and more naturaltone of voice proceeded:

"So you did not believe me when I told you that these brothers weredead, and you have been to the Mortons to learn more?"

"Yes. "

"Well, and what have you learned?"

"Nothing. Morton declares that he does not know that they are alive, buthe says also that he does not know that they are dead. "

"Indeed, " said the other, listening with great attention; "and youreally think that he does not know anything about them?"

"I do, indeed. "

"Hum! Is he a sort of man who would post down the rhino to help thesearch?"

"He looked as if he had the yellow fever when I said I was poor, "returned William, turning round, and trying to catch a glimpse at thefire, as he gulped his brandy and water. 

"Then I'll be d---d if I run the risk of calling. I have done somethings in this town by way of business before now; and though it'sa long time ago, yet folks don't forget a haundsome man in ahurry--especially if he has done 'em! Now, then, listen to me. You see, I have given this matter all the 'tention in my power. 'If the lads bedead, ' said I to you, 'it is no use burning one's fingers by holdinga candle to bones in a coffin. But Mr. Beaufort need not know they aredead, and we'll see what we can get out of him; and if I succeeds, asI think I shall, you and I may hold up our heads for the rest of ourlife. ' Accordingly, as I told you, I went to Mr. Beaufort, and--'Gad, I thought we had it all our own way. But since I saw you last, there'sbeen the devil and all. When I called again, Will, I was shown in to anold lord, sharp as a gimblet. Hang me, William, if he did not frightenme out of my seven senses!"

Here Captain Smith (the reader has, no doubt, already discovered thatthe speaker was no less a personage) took three or four nervous stridesacross the room, returned to the table, threw himself in a chair, placedone foot on one hob, and one on the other, laid his finger on his nose, and, with a significant wink, said in a whisper, "Will, he knew Ihad been lagged! He not only refused to hear all I had to say, butthreatened to prosecute--persecute, hang, draw, and quarter us both, ifwe ever dared to come out with the truth. "

"But what's the good of the truth if the boys are dead?" said William, timidly. 

The captain, without heeding this question, continued, as he stirred thesugar in his glass, "Well, out I sneaked, and as soon as I had got tomy own door I turned round and saw Sharp the runner on the other side ofthe way--I felt deuced queer. However, I went in, sat down, and beganto think. I saw that it was up with us, so far as the old uns wereconcerned; and it might be worth while to find out if the young unsreally were dead. "

"Then you did not know that after all! I thought so. Oh, Jerry!"

"Why, look you, man, it was not our interest to take their side if wecould make our bargain out of the other. 'Cause why? You are only onewitness--you are a good fellow, but poor, and with very shaky nerves, Will. You does not know what them big wigs are when a roan's caged in awitness-box--they flank one up, and they flank one down, and they bullyand bother, till one's like a horse at Astley's dancing on hot iron. If your testimony broke down, why it would be all up with the case, and what then would become of us? Besides, " added the captain, withdignified candour, "I have been lagged, it's no use denying it; I amback before my time. Inquiries about your respectability would soonbring the bulkies about me. And you would not have poor Jerry sent backto that d---d low place on t'other side of the herring-pond, would you?"

"Ah, Jerry!" said William, kindly placing his hand in his brother's, "you know I helped you to escape; I left all to come over with you. "

"So you did, and you're a good fellow; though as to leaving all, why youhad got rid of all first. And when you told me about the marriage, didnot I say that I saw our way to a snug thing for life? But to returnto my story. There is a danger in going with the youngsters. But since, Will, --since nothing but hard words is to be got on the other side, we'll do our duty, and I'll find them out, and do the best I can forus--that is, if they be yet above ground. And now I'll own to you that Ithink I knows that the younger one is alive. "

"You do?"

"Yes! But as he won't come in for anything unless his brother is dead, we must have a hunt for the heir. Now I told you that, many years ago, there was a lad with me, who, putting all things together--seeing howthe Beauforts came after him, and recollecting different things he letout at the time--I feel pretty sure is your old master's Hopeful. I knowthat poor Will Gawtrey gave this lad the address of Old Gregg, a friendof mine. So after watching Sharp off the sly, I went that very night, orrather at two in the morning, to Gregg's house, and, after brushingup his memory, I found that the lad had been to him, and gone overafterwards to Paris in search of Gawtrey, who was then keeping amatrimony shop. As I was not rich enough to go off to Paris in apleasant, gentlemanlike way, I allowed Gregg to put me up to a noicequiet little bit of business. Don't shake your head--all safe--a ruralaffair! That took some days. You see it has helped to new rig me, " andthe captain glanced complacently over a very smart suit of clothes. "Well, on my return I went to call on you, but you had flown. I halfsuspected you might have gone to the mother's relations here; and Ithought, at all events, that I could not do better than go myself andsee what they knew of the matter. From what you say I feel I had betternow let that alone, and go over to Paris at once; leave me alone tofind out. And faith, what with Sharp and the old lord, the sooner I quitEngland the better. "

"And you really think you shall get hold of them after all? Oh, neverfear my nerves if I'm once in the right; it's living with you, andseeing you do wrong, and hearing you talk wickedly, that makes metremble. "

"Bother!" said the captain, "you need not crow over me. Stand up, Will;there now, look at us two in the glass! Why, I look ten years youngerthan you do, in spite of all my troubles. I dress like a gentleman, asI am; I have money in my pocket; I put money in yours; without me you'dstarve. Look you, you carried over a little fortune to Australia--youmarried--you farmed--you lived honestly, and yet that d---dshilly-shally disposition of yours, 'ticed into one speculation to-day, and scared out of another to-morrow, ruined you!"

"Jerry! Jerry!" cried William, writhing; "don't--don't. "

"But it's all true, and I wants to cure you of preaching. And then, when you were nearly run out, instead of putting a bold face on it, andsetting your shoulder to the wheel, you gives it up--you sells what youhave--you bolts over, wife and all, to Boston, because some one tellsyou you can do better in America--you are out of the way when a searchis made for you--years ago when you could have benefited yourself andyour master's family without any danger to you or me--nobody can findyou; 'cause why, you could not bear that your old friends in England, orin the colony either, should know that you were turned a slave-driver inKentucky. You kick up a mutiny among the niggers by moaning over them, instead of keeping 'em to it--you get kicked out yourself--your wifebegs you to go back to Australia, where her relations will do somethingfor you--you work your passage out, looking as ragged as a coltfrom grass--wife's uncle don't like ragged nephews-in-law--wife diesbroken-hearted--and you might be breaking stones on the roads with theconvicts, if I, myself a convict, had not taken compassion on you. Don'tcry, Will, it is all for your own good--I hates cant! Whereas I, my ownmaster from eighteen, never stooped to serve any other--have dressedlike a gentleman--kissed the pretty girls--drove my pheaton--been in allthe papers as 'the celebrated Dashing Jerry'--never wanted a guinea inmy pocket, and even when lagged at last, had a pretty little sum inthe colonial bank to lighten my misfortunes. I escape, --I bring youover--and here I am, supporting you, and in all probability, the one onwhom depends the fate of one of the first families in the country. Andyou preaches at me, do you? Look you, Will;--in this world, honesty'snothing without force of character! And so your health!"

Here the captain emptied the rest of the brandy into his glass, drainedit at a draught, and, while poor William was wiping his eyes with aragged blue pocket-handkerchief, rang the bell, and asked what coacheswould pass that way to -----, a seaport town at some distance. Onhearing that there was one at six o'clock, the captain ordered the bestdinner the larder would afford to be got ready as soon as possible; and, when they were again alone, thus accosted his brother:--

"Now you go back to town--here are four shiners for you. Keepquiet--don't speak to a soul--don't put your foot in it, that's all Ibeg, and I'll find out whatever there is to be found. It is damnably outof my way embarking at -----, but I had best keep clear of Lunnon. And Itell you what, if these youngsters have hopped the twig, there's anotherbird on the bough that may prove a goldfinch after all--Young ArthurBeaufort: I hear he is a wild, expensive chap, and one who can't livewithout lots of money. Now, it's easy to frighten a man of that sort, and I cha'n't have the old lord at his elbow. "

"But I tell you, that I only care for my poor master's children. "

"Yes; but if they are dead, and by saying they are alive, one can makeold age comfortable, there's no harm in it--eh?"

"I don't know, " said William, irresolutely. "But certainly it is a hardthing to be so poor at my time of life; and so honest a man as I'vebeen, too!"

Captain Smith went a little too far when he said that "honesty's nothingwithout force of character. " Still, Honesty has no business to behelpless and draggle-tailed;--she must be active and brisk, and make useof her wits; or, though she keep clear or the prison, 'tis no very greatwonder if she fall on the parish. 

CHAPTER III. 

 "Mitis. --This Macilente, signior, begins to be more sociable on a sudden. " Every Man out of his Humour. 

 "Punt. Signior, you are sufficiently instructed. 

 "Fast. Who, I, sir?"--Ibid. 

After spending the greater part of the day in vain inquiries and a vainsearch, Philip and Mr. Morton returned to the house of the latter. 

"And now, " said Philip, "all that remains to be done is this: firstgive to the police of the town a detailed description of the man; andsecondly, let us put an advertisement both in the county journal and insome of the London papers, to the effect, that if the person who calledon you will take the trouble to apply again, either personally or byletter, he may obtain the information sought for. In case he does, I will trouble you to direct him to--yes--to Monsieur de Vaudemont, according to this address. "

"Not to you, then?"

"It is the same thing, " replied Philip, drily. "You have confirmed mysuspicions, that the Beauforts know some thing of my brother. What didyou say of some other friend of the family who assisted in the search?"

"Oh, --a Mr. Spencer! an old acquaintance of your mother's. " Here Mr. Morton smiled, but not being encouraged in a joke, went on, "However, that's neither here nor there; he certainly never found out yourbrother. For I have had several letters from him at different times, asking if any news had been heard of either of you. "

And, indeed, Spencer had taken peculiar pains to deceive the Mortons, whose interposition he feared little less than that of the Beauforts. 

"Then it can be of no use to apply to him, " said Philip, carelessly, nothaving any recollection of the name of Spencer, and therefore attachinglittle importance to the mention of him. 

"Certainly, I should think not. Depend on it, Mr. Beaufort must know. "

"True, " said Philip. "And I have only to thank you for your kindness, and return to town. "

"But stay with us this day--do--let me feel that we are friends. Iassure you poor Sidney's fate has been a load on my mind ever since heleft. You shall have the bed he slept in, and over which your motherbent when she left him and me for the last time. "

These words were said with so much feeling, that the adventurer wrunghis uncle's hand, and said, "Forgive me, I wronged you--I will be yourguest. "

Mrs. Morton, strange to say, evinced no symptoms of ill-humour at thenews of the proffered hospitality. In fact, Miss Margaret had beenso eloquent in Philip's praise during his absence, that she sufferedherself to be favourably impressed. Her daughter, indeed, had obtained asort of ascendency over Mrs. M. And the whole house, ever since shehad received so excellent an offer. And, moreover, some people are likedogs--they snarl at the ragged and fawn on the well-dressed. Mrs. Mortondid not object to a nephew de facto, she only objected to a nephew informa pauperis. The evening, therefore, passed more cheerfully thanmight have been anticipated, though Philip found some difficulty inparrying the many questions put to him on the past. He contented himselfwith saying, as briefly as possible, that he had served in a foreignservice, and acquired what sufficed him for an independence; and then, with the ease which a man picks up in the great world, turned theconversation to the prospects of the family whose guest he was. Havinglistened with due attention to Mrs. Morton's eulogies on Tom, who hadbeen sent for, and who drank the praises on his own gentility into avery large pair of blushing ears, --also, to her self-felicitations onMiss Margaret's marriage, --item, on the service rendered to the town byMr. Roger, who had repaired the town-hall in his first mayoralty at hisown expense, --item, to a long chronicle of her own genealogy, how shehad one cousin a clergyman, and how her great-grandfather had beenknighted, --item, to the domestic virtues of all her children, --item, toa confused explanation of the chastisement inflicted on Sidney, whichPhilip cut short in the middle; he asked, with a smile, what had becomeof the Plaskwiths. "Oh!" said Mrs. Morton, "my brother Kit has retiredfrom business. His son-in-law, Mr. Plimmins, has succeeded. "

"Oh, then, Plimmins married one of the young ladies?"

"Yes, Jane--she bad a sad squint!--Tom, there is nothing to laughat, --we are all as God made us, --'Handsome is as handsome does, '--shehas had three little uns!"

"Do they squint too?" asked Philip; and Miss Margaret giggled, and Tomroared, and the other young men roared too. Philip had certainly saidsomething very witty. 

This time Mrs. Morton administered no reproof; but replied pensively

"Natur is very mysterious--they all squint!"

Mr. Morton conducted Philip to his chamber. There it was, fresh, clean, unaltered--the same white curtains, the same honeysuckle paper as whenCatherine had crept across the threshold. 

"Did Sidney ever tell you that his mother placed a ring round his neckthat night?" asked Mr. Morton. 

"Yes; and the dear boy wept when he said that he had slept too soundlyto know that she was by his side that last, last time. The ring--oh, how well I remember it! she never put it off till then; and often in thefields--for we were wild wanderers together in that day--often when hishead lay on my shoulder, I felt that ring still resting on his heart, and fancied it was a talisman--a blessing. Well, well-good night toyou!" And he shut the door on his uncle, and was alone. 

CHAPTER IV. 

 "The Man of Law, . .. .. .. And a great suit is like to be between them. " BEN JONSON: Staple of News. 

On arriving in London, Philip went first to the lodging he stillkept there, and to which his letters were directed; and, among somecommunications from Paris, full of the politics and the hopes of theCarlists, he found the following note from Lord Lilburne:--

"DEAR SIR, --When I met you the other day I told you I had beenthreatened with the gout. The enemy has now taken possession of thefield. I am sentenced to regimen and the sofa. But as it is my rule inlife to make afflictions as light as possible, so I have asked a fewfriends to take compassion on me, and help me 'to shuffle off thismortal coil' by dealing me, if they can, four by honours. Any timebetween nine and twelve to-night, or to-morrow night, you will find meat home; and if you are not better engaged, suppose you dine with meto-day--or rather dine opposite to me--and excuse my Spartan broth. Youwill meet (besides any two or three friends whom an impromptu invitationmay find disengaged) my sister, with Beaufort and their daughter: theyonly arrived in town this morning, and are kind enough 'to nurse me, ' asthey call it, --that is to say, their cook is taken ill!

 "Yours, "LILBURNE"Park Lane, Sept. --"

"The Beauforts. Fate favors me--I will go. The date is for to-day. "

He sent off a hasty line to accept the invitation, and finding he had afew hours yet to spare, he resolved to employ them in consultation withsome lawyer as to the chances of ultimately regaining his inheritance--ahope which, however wild, he had, since his return to his native shore, and especially since he had heard of the strange visit made to RogerMorton, permitted himself to indulge. With this idea he sallied out, meaning to consult Liancourt, who, having a large acquaintance amongthe English, seemed the best person to advise him as to the choice ofa lawyer at once active and honest, --when he suddenly chanced upon thatgentleman himself. 

"This is lucky, my dear Liancourt. I was just going to your lodgings. "

"And I was coming to yours to know if you dine with Lord Lilburne. Hetold me he had asked you. I have just left him. And, by the sofa ofMephistopheles, there was the prettiest Margaret you ever beheld. "

"Indeed!--Who?"

"He called her his niece; but I should doubt if he had any relation onthis side the Styx so human as a niece. "

"You seem to have no great predilection for our host. "

"My dear Vaudemont, between our blunt, soldierly natures, and thosewily, icy, sneering intellects, there is the antipathy of the dog to thecat. "

"Perhaps so on our side, not on his--or why does he invite us?"

"London is empty; there is no one else to ask. We are new faces, newminds to him. We amuse him more than the hackneyed comrades he has wornout. Besides, he plays--and you, too. Fie on you!"

"Liancourt, I had two objects in knowing that man, and I pay to the tollfor the bridge. When I cease to want the passage, I shall cease to paythe toll. "

"But the bridge may be a draw-bridge, and the moat is devilish deepbelow. Without metaphor, that man may ruin you before you know where youare. "

"Bah! I have my eyes open. I know how much to spend on the rogue whoseservice I hire as a lackey's; and I know also where to stop. Liancourt, "he added, after a short pause, and in a tone deep with suppressedpassion, "when I first saw that man, I thought of appealing to his heartfor one who has a claim on it. That was a vain hope. And then there cameupon me a sterner and deadlier thought--the scheme of the Avenger! ThisLilburne--this rogue whom the world sets up to worship--ruined, bodyand soul ruined--one whose name the world gibbets with scorn! Well, Ithought to avenge that man. In his own house--amidst you all--I thoughtto detect the sharper, and brand the cheat!"

"You startle me!--It has been whispered, indeed, that Lord Lilburneis dangerous, --but skill is dangerous. To cheat!--an Englishman!--anobleman!--impossible!"

"Whether he do or not, " returned Vaudemont, in a calmer tone, "I haveforegone the vengeance, because he is--"

"Is what?"

"No matter, " said Vaudemont aloud, but he added to himself, --"Because heis the grandfather of Fanny!"

"You are very enigmatical to-day. "

"Patience, Liancourt; I may solve all the riddles that make up mylife, yet. Bear with me a little longer. And now can you help me to alawyer?--a man experienced, indeed, and of repute, but young, active, not overladen with business;--I want his zeal and his time, for a hazardthat your monopolists of clients may not deem worth their devotion. "

"I can recommend you, then, the very man you require. I had a suitsome years ago at Paris, for which English witnesses were necessary. My avocat employed a solicitor here whose activity in collecting myevidence gained my cause. I will answer for his diligence and hishonesty. "

"His address?"

"Mr. Barlow--somewhere by the Strand--let me see--Essex-yes, EssexStreet. "

"Then good-bye to you for the present. --You dine at Lord Lilburne'stoo?"

"Yes. Adieu till then. "

Vaudemont was not long before he arrived at Mr. Barlow's; a brass-plateannounced to him the house. He was shown at once into a parlour, where he saw a man whom lawyers would call young, and spinstersmiddle-aged--viz. , about two-and-forty; with a bold, resolute, intelligent countenance, and that steady, calm, sagacious eye, whichinspires at once confidence and esteem. 

Vaudemont scanned him with the look of one who has been accustomedto judge mankind--as a scholar does books--with rapidity because withpractice. He had at first resolved to submit to him the heads ofhis case without mentioning names, and, in fact, he so commenced hisnarrative; but by degrees, as he perceived how much his own earnestnessarrested and engrossed the interest of his listener, he warmed intofuller confidence, and ended by a full disclosure, and a caution as tothe profoundest secrecy in case, if there were no hope to recover hisrightful name, he might yet wish to retain, unannoyed by curiosity orsuspicion, that by which he was not discreditably known. 

"Sir, " said Mr. Barlow, after assuring him of the most scrupulousdiscretion, --"sir, I have some recollection of the trial instituted byyour mother, Mrs. Beaufort"--and the slight emphasis he laid on thatname was the most grateful compliment he could have paid to the truthof Philip's recital. "My impression is, that it was managed in a veryslovenly manner by her lawyer; and some of his oversights we may repairin a suit instituted by yourself. But it would be absurd to conceal fromyou the great difficulties that beset us--your mother's suit, designedto establish her own rights, was far easier than that which you mustcommence--viz. , an action for ejectment against a man who has been someyears in undisturbed possession. Of course, until the missing witness isfound out, it would be madness to commence litigation. And the question, then, will be, how far that witness will suffice? It is true, that onewitness of a marriage, if the others are dead, is held sufficient bylaw. But I need not add, that that witness must be thoroughly credible. In suits for real property, very little documentary or secondaryevidence is admitted. I doubt even whether the certificate of themarriage on which--in the loss or destruction of the register--you layso much stress, would be available in itself. But if an examined copy, it becomes of the last importance, for it will then inform us of thename of the person who extracted and examined it. Heaven grant it maynot have been the clergyman himself who performed the ceremony, and who, you say, is dead; if some one else, we should then have a second, nodoubt credible and most valuable witness. The document would thus becomeavailable as proof, and, I think, that we should not fail to establishour case. "

"But this certificate, how is it ever to be found? I told you we hadsearched everywhere in vain. "

"True; but you say that your mother always declared that the late Mr. Beaufort had so solemnly assured her, even just prior to his decease, that it was in existence, that I have no doubt as to the fact. It may bepossible, but it is a terrible insinuation to make, that if Mr. RobertBeaufort, in examining the papers of the deceased, chanced upon adocument so important to him, he abstracted or destroyed it. If thisshould not have been the case (and Mr. Robert Beaufort's moral characteris unspotted--and we have no right to suppose it), the probability is, either that it was intrusted to some third person, or placed insome hidden drawer or deposit, the secret of which your father neverdisclosed. Who has purchased the house you lived in?"

"Fernside? Lord Lilburne. Mrs. Robert Beaufort's brother. "

"Humph--probably, then, he took the furniture and all. Sir, this is amatter that requires some time for close consideration. With your leave, I will not only insert in the London papers an advertisement to theeffect that you suggested to Mr. Roger Morton (in case you should havemade a right conjecture as to the object of the man who applied to him), but I will also advertise for the witness himself. William Smith, yousay, his name is. Did the lawyer employed by Mrs. Beaufort send toinquire for him in the colony?"

"No; I fear there could not have been time for that. My mother was soanxious and eager, and so convinced of the justice of her case--"

"That's a pity; her lawyer must have been a sad driveller. "

"Besides, now I remember, inquiry was made of his relations in England. His father, a farmer, was then alive; the answer was that he hadcertainly left Australia. His last letter, written two years before thatdate, containing a request for money, which the father, himself made abankrupt by reverses, could not give, had stated that he was about toseek his fortune elsewhere--since then they had heard nothing of him. "

"Ahem! Well, you will perhaps let me know where any relations of hisare yet to be found, and I will look up the former suit, and go intothe whole case without delay. In the meantime, you do right, sir--if youwill allow me to say it--not to disclose either your own identity or ahint of your intentions. It is no use putting suspicion on its guard. And my search for this certificate must be managed with the greatestaddress. But, by the way--speaking of identity--there can be nodifficulty, I hope, in proving yours. "

Philip was startled. "Why, I am greatly altered. "

"But probably your beard and moustache may contribute to that change;and doubtless, in the village where you lived, there would be many withwhom you were in sufficient intercourse, and on whose recollection, by recalling little anecdotes and circumstances with which no one butyourself could be acquainted, your features would force themselves alongwith the moral conviction that the man who spoke to them could be noother but Philip Morton--or rather Beaufort. "

"You are right; there must be many such. There was not a cottage in theplace where I and my dogs were not familiar and half domesticated. "

"All's right, so far, then. But I repeat, we must not be too sanguine. Law is not justice--"

"But God is, " said Philip; and he left the room. 

CHAPTER V. 

 "Volpone. A little in a mist, but not dejected; Never--but still myself. " BEN JONSON: Volpone. 

 "Peregrine. Am I enough disguised? Mer. Ay. I warrant you. Per. Save you, fair lady. "--Ibid. 

It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. The ill wind that had blowngout to Lord Lilburne had blown Lord Lilburne away from the injury hehad meditated against what he called "the object of his attachment. " Howcompletely and entirely, indeed, the state of Lord Lilburne's feelingsdepended on the state of his health, may be seen in the answer he gaveto his valet, when, the morning after the first attack of the gout, that worthy person, by way of cheering his master, proposed to ascertainsomething as to the movements of one with whom Lord Lilburne professedto be so violently in love, --"Confound you, Dykeman!" exclaimed theinvalid, --"why do you trouble me about women when I'm in this condition?I don't care if they were all at the bottom of the sea! Reach me thecolchicum! I must keep my mind calm. "

Whenever tolerably well, Lord Lilburne was careless of his health; themoment he was ill, Lord Lilburne paid himself the greatest possibleattention. Though a man of firm nerves, in youth of remarkable daring, and still, though no longer rash, of sufficient personal courage, he wasby no means fond of the thought of death--that is, of his own death. Not that he was tormented by any religious apprehensions of the DreadUnknown, but simply because the only life of which he had any experienceseemed to him a peculiarly pleasant thing. He had a sort of instinctivepersuasion that John Lord Lilburne would not be better off anywhereelse. Always disliking solitude, he disliked it more than ever whenhe was ill, and he therefore welcomed the visit of his sister and thegentle hand of his pretty niece. As for Beaufort, he bored the sufferer;and when that gentleman, on his arrival, shutting out his wife anddaughter, whispered to Lilburne, "Any more news of that impostor?"Lilburne answered peevishly, "I never talk about business when I havethe gout! I have set Sharp to keep a lookout for him, but he has learnednothing as yet. And now go to your club. You are a worthy creature, but too solemn for my spirits just at this moment. I have a few peoplecoming to dine with me, your wife will do the honors, and--you cancome in the evening. " Though Mr. Robert Beaufort's sense of importanceswelled and chafed at this very unceremonious conge, he forced a smile, and said:--

"Well, it is no wonder you are a little fretful with the gout. I haveplenty to do in town, and Mrs. Beaufort and Camilla can come backwithout waiting for me. "

"Why, as your cook is ill, and they can't dine at a club, you may aswell leave them here till I am a little better; not that I care, for Ican hire a better nurse than either of them. "

"My dear Lilburne, don't talk of hiring nurses; certainly, I am toohappy if they can be of comfort to you. "

"No! on second thoughts, you may take back your wife, she's alwaystalking of her own complaints, and leave me Camilla: you can't want herfor a few days. "

"Just as you like. And you really think I have managed as well as Icould about this young man, --eh?"

"Yes--yes! And so you go to Beaufort Court in a few days?"

"I propose doing so. I wish you were well enough to come. "

"Um! Chambers says that it would be a very good air for me--betterthan Fernside; and as to my castle in the north, I would as soon go toSiberia. Well, if I get better, I will pay you a visit, only you alwayshave such a stupid set of respectable people about you. I shock them, and they oppress me. "

"Why, as I hope soon to see Arthur, I shall make it as agreeable to himas I can, and I shall be very much obliged to you if you would invite afew of your own friends. "

"Well, you are a good fellow, Beaufort, and I will take you at yourword; and, since one good turn deserves another, I have now no scruplesin telling you that I feel quite sure that you will have no furtherannoyance from this troublesome witness-monger. "

"In that case, " said Beaufort, "I may pick up a better match forCamilla! Good-bye, my dear Lilburne. "

"Form and Ceremony of the world!" snarled the peer, as the door closedon his brother-in-law, "ye make little men very moral, and not a bit thebetter for being so. "

It so happened that Vaudemont arrived before any of the other gueststhat day, and during the half hour which Dr. Chambers assigned to hisillustrious patient, so that, when he entered, there were only Mrs. Beaufort and Camilla in the drawing-room. 

Vaudemont drew back involuntarily as he recognized in the fadedcountenance of the elder lady, features associated with one of the darkpassages in his earlier life; but Mrs. Beaufort's gracious smile, and urbane, though languid welcome, sufficed to assure him that therecognition was not mutual. He advanced, and again stopped short, as hiseye fell upon that fair and still childlike form, which had once kneltby his side and pleaded, with the orphan, for his brother. While hespoke to her, many recollections, some dark and stern--but those, atleast, connected with Camilla, soft and gentle-thrilled through hisheart. Occupied as her own thoughts and feelings necessarily were withSidney, there was something in Vaudemont's appearance--his manner, hisvoice--which forced upon Camilla a strange and undefined interest; andeven Mrs. Beaufort was roused from her customary apathy, as she glancedat that dark and commanding face with something between admiration andfear. Vaudemont had scarcely, however, spoken ten words, when some otherguests were announced, and Lord Lilburne was wheeled in upon hissofa shortly afterwards. Vaudemont continued, however, seated next toCamilla, and the embarrassment he had at first felt disappeared. Hepossessed, when he pleased, that kind of eloquence which belongs tomen who have seen much and felt deeply, and whose talk has not beenfrittered down to the commonplace jargon of the world. His veryphraseology was distinct and peculiar, and he had that rarest of allcharms in polished life, originality both of thought and of manner. Camilla blushed, when she found at dinner that he placed himself by herside. That evening De Vaudemont excused himself from playing, but thetable was easily made without him, and still he continued to conversewith the daughter of the man whom he held as his worst foe. By degrees, he turned the conversation into a channel that might lead him to theknowledge he sought. 

"It was my fate, " said he, "once to become acquainted with an intimatefriend of the late Mr. Beaufort. Will you pardon me if I venture tofulfil a promise I made to him, and ask you to inform me what has becomeof a--a--that is, of Sidney Morton?"

"Sidney Morton! I don't even remember the name. Oh, yes! I have heardit, " added Camilla, innocently, and with a candour that showed howlittle she knew of the secrets of the family; "he was one of two poorboys in whom my brother felt a deep interest--some relations to myuncle. Yes--yes! I remember now. I never knew Sidney, but I once did seehis brother. "

"Indeed! and you remember--"

"Yes! I was very young then. I scarcely recollect what passed, it wasall so confused and strange; but, I know that I made papa very angry, and I was told never to mention the name of Morton again. I believe theybehaved very ill to papa. "

"And you never learned--never!--the fate of either--of Sidney?"

"Never!"

"But your father must know?"

"I think not; but tell me, "--said Camilla, with girlish and unaffectedinnocence, "I have always felt anxious to know, --what and who were thosepoor boys?"

What and who were they? So deep, then, was the stain upon their name, that the modest mother and the decorous father had never even said tothat young girl, "They are your cousins--the children of the man inwhose gold we revel!"

Philip bit his lip, and the spell of Camilla's presence seemed vanished. He muttered some inaudible answer, turned away to the card-table, andLiancourt took the chair he had left vacant. 

"And how does Miss Beaufort like my friend Vaudemont? I assure you thatI have seldom seen him so alive to the fascination of female beauty!"

"Oh!" said Camilla, with her silver laugh, "your nation spoils usfor our own countrymen. You forget how little we are accustomed toflattery. "

"Flattery! what truth could flatter on the lips of an exile? But youdon't answer my question--what think you of Vaudemont? Few are moreadmired. He is handsome!"

"Is he?" said Camilla, and she glanced at Vaudemont, as he stood at alittle distance, thoughtful and abstracted. Every girl forms to herselfsome untold dream of that which she considers fairest. And Vaudemont hadnot the delicate and faultless beauty of Sidney. There was nothing thatcorresponded to her ideal in his marked features and lordly shape! Butshe owned, reluctantly to herself, that she had seldom seen, among thetrim gallants of everyday life, a form so striking and impressive. Theair, indeed, was professional--the most careless glance could detect thesoldier. But it seemed the soldier of an elder age or a wilder clime. Herecalled to her those heads which she had seen in the Beaufort Galleryand other Collections yet more celebrated--portraits by Titian of thosewarrior statesman who lived in the old Republics of Italy in a perpetualstruggle with their kind--images of dark, resolute, earnest men. Even whatever was intellectual in his countenance spoke, as in thoseportraits, of a mind sharpened rather in active than in studiouslife;--intellectual, not from the pale hues, the worn exhaustion, andthe sunken cheek of the bookman and dreamer, but from its collected andstern repose, the calm depth that lay beneath the fire of the eyes, andthe strong will that spoke in the close full lips, and the high but notcloudless forehead. 

And, as she gazed, Vaudemont turned round--her eyes fell beneath his, and she felt angry with herself that she blushed. Vaudemont saw thedowncast eye, he saw the blush, and the attraction of Camilla's presencewas restored. He would have approached her, but at that moment Mr. Beaufort himself entered, and his thoughts went again into a darkerchannel. 

"Yes, " said Liancourt, "you must allow Vaudemont looks what he is--anoble fellow and a gallant soldier. Did you never hear of his battlewith the tigress? It made a noise in India. I must tell it you as I haveheard it. "

And while Laincourt was narrating the adventure, whatever it was, towhich he referred, the card-table was broken up, and Lord Lilburne, still reclining on his sofa, lazily introduced his brother-in-law tosuch of the guests as were strangers to him--Vaudemont among the rest. Mr. Beaufort had never seen Philip Morton more than three times; onceat Fernside, and the other times by an imperfect light, and when hisfeatures were convulsed by passion, and his form disfigured by hisdress. Certainly, therefore, had Robert Beaufort even possessed thatfaculty of memory which is supposed to belong peculiarly to kings andprinces, and which recalls every face once seen, it might have taskedthe gift to the utmost to have detected, in the bronzed and decoratedforeigner to whom he was now presented, the features of the wild andlong-lost boy. But still some dim and uneasy presentiment, or somestruggling and painful effort of recollection, was in his mind, as hespoke to Vaudemont, and listened to the cold calm tone of his reply. 

"Who do you say that Frenchman is?" he whispered to his brother-in-law, as Vaudemont turned away. 

"Oh! a cleverish sort of adventurer--a gentleman; he plays. --He hasseen a good deal of the world--he rather amuses me--different from otherpeople. I think of asking him to join our circle at Beaufort Court. "

Mr. Beaufort coughed huskily, but not seeing any reasonable objectionto the proposal, and afraid of rousing the sleeping hyaena of LordLilburne's sarcasm, he merely said:--

"Any one you like to invite:" and looking round for some one on whom tovent his displeasure, perceived Camilla still listening to Liancourt. He stalked up to her, and as Liancourt, seeing her rise, rose also andmoved away, he said peevishly, "You will never learn to conduct yourselfproperly; you are to be left here to nurse and comfort your uncle, andnot to listen to the gibberish of every French adventurer. Well, Heavenbe praised, I have a son--girls are a great plague!"

"So they are, Mr. Beaufort, " sighed his wife, who had just joinedhim, and who was jealous of the preference Lilburne had given to herdaughter. 

"And so selfish, " added Mrs. Beaufort; "they only care for their ownamusements, and never mind how uncomfortable their parents are for wantof them. "

"Oh! dear mamma, don't say so--let me go home with you--I'll speak to myuncle!"

"Nonsense, child! Come along, Mr. Beaufort;" and the affectionateparents went out arm in arm. They did not perceive that Vaudemont hadbeen standing close behind them; but Camilla, now looking up with tearsin her eyes, again caught his gaze: he had heard all. 

"And they ill-treat her, " he muttered: "that divides her from them!--shewill be left here--I shall see her again. " As he turned to depart, Lilburne beckoned to him. 

"You do not mean to desert our table?"

"No: but I am not very well to-night--to-morrow, if you will allow me. "

"Ay, to-morrow; and if you can spare an hour in the morning it will be acharity. You see, " he added in a whisper, "I have a nurse, though I haveno children. D'ye think that's love? Bah! sir--a legacy! Good night. "

"No--no--no!" said Vaudemont to himself, as he walked through themoonlit streets. "No! though my heart burns, --poor murdered felon!--toavenge thy wrongs and thy crimes, revenge cannot come from me--he isFanny's grandfather and--Camilla's uncle!"

And Camilla, when that uncle had dismissed her for the night, sat downthoughtfully in her own room. The dark eyes of Vaudemont seemed stillto shine on her; his voice yet rung in her ear; the wild tales of daringand danger with which Liancourt had associated his name yet haunted herbewildered fancy--she started, frightened at her own thoughts. She tookfrom her bosom some lines that Sidney had addressed to her, and, as sheread and re-read, her spirit became calmed to its wonted and faithfulmelancholy. Vaudemont was forgotten, and the name of Sidney yet murmuredon her lips, when sleep came to renew the image of the absent one, andpaint in dreams the fairy land of a happy Future!

CHAPTER VI

 "Ring on, ye bells--most pleasant is your chime!" WILSON. Isle of Palms. 

 "O fairy child! What can I wish for thee?"--Ibid. 

Vaudemont remained six days in London without going to H----, and oneach of those days he paid a visit to Lord Lilburne. On the seventh day, the invalid being much better, though still unable to leave his room, Camilla returned to Berkeley Square. On the same day, Vaudemont wentonce more to see Simon and poor Fanny. 

As he approached the door, he heard from the window, partially opened, for the day was clear and fine, Fanny's sweet voice. She was chauntingone of the simple songs she had promised to learn by heart; andVaudemont, though but a poor judge of the art, was struck and affectedby the music of the voice and the earnest depth of the feeling. Hepaused opposite the window and called her by her name. Fanny lookedforth joyously, and ran, as usual, to open the door to him. 

"Oh! you have been so long away; but I already know many of the songs:they say so much that I always wanted to say!"

Vaudemont smiled, but languidly. 

"How strange it is, " said Fanny, musingly, "that there should be so muchin a piece of paper! for, after all, " pointing to the open page of herbook, "this is but a piece of paper--only there is life in it!"

"Ay, " said Vaudemont, gloomily, and far from seizing the subtledelicacy of Fanny's thought--her mind dwelling upon Poetry, and his uponLaw, --"ay, and do you know that upon a mere scrap of paper, if I couldbut find it, may depend my whole fortune, my whole happiness, all that Icare for in life?"

"Upon a scrap of paper? Oh! how I wish I could find it! Ah! you look asif you thought I should never be wise enough for that!"

Vaudemont, not listening to her, uttered a deep sigh. Fanny approachedhim timidly. 

"Do not sigh, brother, --I can't bear to hear you sigh. You are changed. Have you, too, not been happy?"

"Happy, Fanny! yes, lately very happy--too happy!"

"Happy, have you? and I--" the girl stopped short--her tone had beenthat of sadness and reproach, and she stopped--why, she knew not, butshe felt her heart sink within her. Fanny suffered him to pass her, andhe went straight to his room. Her eyes followed him wistfully: it wasnot his habit to leave her thus abruptly. The family meal of the daywas over; and it was an hour before Vaudemont descended to the parlour. Fanny had put aside the songs; she had no heart to recommence thosegentle studies that had been so sweet, --they had drawn no pleasure, nopraise from him. She was seated idly and listlessly beside the silentold man, who every day grew more and more silent still. She turnedher head as Vaudemont entered, and her pretty lip pouted as that ofa neglected child. But he did not heed it, and the pout vanished, andtears rushed to her eyes. 

Vaudemont was changed. His countenance was thoughtful and overcast. Hismanner abstracted. He addressed a few words to Simon, and then, seatinghimself by the window, leant his cheek on his hand, and was soon lost inreverie. Fanny, finding that he did not speak, and after stealing many along and earnest glance at his motionless attitude and gloomy brow, rosegently, and gliding to him with her light step, said, in a tremblingvoice, --

"Are you in pain, brother?"

"No, pretty one!"

"Then why won't you speak to Fanny? Will you not walk with her? Perhapsmy grandfather will come too. "

"Not this evening. I shall go out; but it will be alone. "

"Where? Has not Fanny been good? I have not been out since you left us. And the grave--brother!--I sent Sarah with the flowers--but--"

Vaudemont rose abruptly. The mention of the grave brought back histhoughts from the dreaming channel into which they had flowed. Fanny, whose very childishness had once so soothed him, now disturbed; he feltthe want of that complete solitude which makes the atmosphere of growingpassion: he muttered some scarcely audible excuse, and quitted thehouse. Fanny saw him no more that evening. He did not return tillmidnight. But Fanny did not sleep till she heard his step on the stairs, and his chamber door close: and when she did sleep, her dreams weredisturbed and painful. The next morning, when they met at breakfast (forVaudemont did not return to London), her eyes were red and heavy, and her cheek pale. And, still buried in meditation, Vaudemont's eye, usually so kind and watchful, did not detect those signs of a grief thatFanny could not have explained. After breakfast, however, he askedher to walk out; and her face brightened as she hastened to put on herbonnet, and take her little basket full of fresh flowers which she hadalready sent Sarah forth to purchase. 

"Fanny, " said Vaudemont, as leaving the house, he saw the basket onher arm, "to-day you may place some of those flowers on anothertombstone!--Poor child, what natural goodness there is in thatheart!--what pity that--"

He paused. Fanny looked delightedly in his face. "You were praisingme--you! And what is a pity, brother?"

While she spoke, the sound of the joy-bells was heard near at hand. 

"Hark!" said Vaudemont, forgetting her question--and almostgaily--"Hark!--I accept the omen. It is a marriage peal!"

He quickened his steps, and they reached the churchyard. 

There was a crowd already assembled, and Vaudemont and Fanny paused;and, leaning over the little gate, looked on. 

"Why are these people here, and why does the bell ring so merrily?"

"There is to be a wedding, Fanny. "

"I have heard of a wedding very often, " said Fanny, with a pretty lookof puzzlement and doubt, "but I don't know exactly what it means. Willyou tell me?--and the bells, too!"

"Yes, Fanny, those bells toll but three times for man! The first time, when he comes into the world; the last time, when he leaves it; the timebetween when he takes to his side a partner in all the sorrows--inall the joys that yet remain to him; and who, even when the last bellannounces his death to this earth, may yet, for ever and ever, behis partner in that world to come--that heaven, where they who are asinnocent as you, Fanny, may hope to live and to love each other in aland in which there are no graves!"

"And this bell?"

"Tolls for that partnership--for the wedding!"

"I think I understand you;--and they who are to be wed are happy?"

"Happy, Fanny, if they love, and their love continue. Oh! conceive thehappiness to know some one person dearer to you than your own self--someone breast into which you can pour every thought, every grief, everyjoy! One person, who, if all the rest of the world were to calumniateor forsake you, would never wrong you by a harsh thought or an unjustword, --who would cling to you the closer in sickness, in poverty, incare, --who would sacrifice all things to you, and for whom you wouldsacrifice all--from whom, except by death, night or day, you must benever divided--whose smile is ever at your hearth--who has no tearswhile you are well and happy, and your love the same. Fanny, such ismarriage, if they who marry have hearts and souls to feel that thereis no bond on earth so tender and so sublime. There is an oppositepicture;--I will not draw that! And as it is, Fanny, you cannotunderstand me!"

He turned away:--and Fanny's tears were falling like rain upon the grassbelow;--he did not see them! He entered the churchyard; for the bell nowceased. The ceremony was to begin. He followed the bridal party intothe church, and Fanny, lowering her veil, crept after him, awed andtrembling. 

They stood, unobserved, at a little distance, and heard the service. 

The betrothed were of the middle class of life, young, both comely; andtheir behaviour was such as suited the reverence and sanctity of therite. Vaudemont stood looking on intently, with his arms folded on hisbreast. Fanny leant behind him, and apart from all, against one of thepews. And still in her hand, while the priest was solemnisingMarriage, she held the flowers intended for the Grave. Even to thatMORNING--hushed, calm, earliest, with her mysterious and unconjecturedheart--her shape brought a thought of NIGHT!

When the ceremony was over--when the bride fell on her mother's breastand wept; and then, when turning thence, her eyes met the bridegroom's, and the tears were all smiled away--when, in that one rapid interchangeof looks, spoke all that holy love can speak to love, and with timidfrankness she placed her hand in his to whom she had just vowed herlife, --a thrill went through the hearts of those present. Vaudemontsighed heavily. He heard his sigh echoed; but by one that had in itssound no breath of pain; he turned; Fanny had raised her veil; her eyesmet his, moistened, but bright, soft, and her cheeks were rosy-red. Vaudemont recoiled before that gaze, and turned from the church. Thepersons interested retired to the vestry to sign their names in theregistry; the crowd dispersed, and Vaudemont and Fanny stood alone inthe burial-ground. 

"Look, Fanny, " said the former, pointing to a tomb that stood farfrom his mother's (for those ashes were too hallowed for such aneighbourhood). "Look yonder; it is a new tomb. Fanny, let us approachit. Can you read what is there inscribed?"

The inscription was simply this:

 TO W-- G-- MAN SEES THE DEED GOD THE CIRCUMSTANCE. JUDGE NOT, THAT YE BE NOT JUDGED. 

"Fanny, this tomb fulfils your pious wish: it is to the memory ofhim whom you called your father. Whatever was his life here--whateversentence it hath received, Heaven, at least, will not condemn yourpiety, if you honour one who was good to you, and place flowers, howeveridle, even over that grave. "

"It is his--my father's--and you have thought of this for me!" saidFanny, taking his hand, and sobbing. "And I have been thinking that youwere not so kind to me as you were!"

"Have I not been so kind to you? Nay, forgive me, I am not happy. "

"Not?--you said yesterday you had been too happy. "

"To remember happiness is not to be happy, Fanny. "

"That's true--and--"

Fanny stopped; and, as she bent over the tomb, musing, Vaudemont, willing to leave her undisturbed, and feeling bitterly how little hisconscience could vindicate, though it might find palliation for, thedark man who slept not there--retired a few paces. 

At this time the new-married pair, with their witnesses, the clergyman, &c. , came from the vestry, and crossed the path. Fanny, as she turnedfrom the tomb, saw them, and stood still, looking earnestly at thebride. 

"What a lovely face!" said the mother. "Is it--yes it is--the poor idiotgirl. "

"Ah!" said the bridegroom, tenderly, "and she, Mary, beautiful as sheis, she can never make another as happy as you have made me. "

Vaudemont heard, and his heart felt sad. "Poor Fanny!--And yet, but forthat affliction--I might have loved her, ere I met the fatal face of thedaughter of my foe!" And with a deep compassion, an inexpressible andholy fondness, he moved to Fanny. 

"Come, my child; now let us go home. "

"Stay, " said Fanny--"you forget. " And she went to strew the flowersstill left over Catherine's grave. 

"Will my mother, " thought Vaudemont, "forgive me, if I have otherthoughts than hate and vengeance for that house which builds itsgreatness over her slandered name?" He groaned:--and that grave had lostits melancholy charm. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 "Of all men, I say, That dare, for 'tis a desperate adventure, Wear on their free necks the yoke of women, Give me a soldier. "--Knight of Malta. 

 "So lightly doth this little boat Upon the scarce-touch'd billows float; So careless doth she seem to be, Thus left by herself on the homeless sea, To lie there with her cheerful sail, Till Heaven shall send some gracious gale. " WILSON: Isle of Palms. 

Vaudemont returned that evening to London, and found at his lodgingsa note from Lord Lilburne, stating that as his gout was now somewhatmitigated, his physician had recommended him to try change of air--thatBeaufort Court was in one of the western counties, in a genialclimate--that he was therefore going thither the next day for a shorttime--that he had asked some of Monsieur de Vaudemont's countrymen, anda few other friends, to enliven the circle of a dull country-house--thatMr. And Mrs. Beaufort would be delighted to see Monsieur de Vaudemontalso--and that his compliance with their invitation would be a charityto Monsieur de Vaudemont's faithful and obliged, LILBURNE. 

The first sensation of Vaudemont on reading this effusion was delight. "I shall see her, " he cried; "I shall be under the same roof!" But theglow faded at once from his cheek;--the roof!--what roof? Be the guestwhere he held himself the lord!--be the guest of Robert Beaufort!--Wasthat all? Did he not meditate the deadliest war which civilised lifeadmits of--the War of Law--war for name, property, that very hearth, with all its household gods, against this man--could he receive hishospitality? "And what then!" he exclaimed, as he paced to and fro theroom, --"because her father wronged me, and because I would claim mineown--must I therefore exclude from my thoughts, from my sight, an imageso fair and gentle;--the one who knelt by my side, an infant, to thathard man?--Is hate so noble a passion that it is not to admit oneglimpse of Love?--Love! what word is that? Let me beware in time!" Hepaused in fierce self-contest, and, throwing open the window, gasped forair. The street in which he lodged was situated in the neighbourhood ofSt. James's; and, at that very moment, as if to defeat all opposition, and to close the struggle, Mrs. Beaufort's barouche drove by, Camillaat her side. Mrs. Beaufort, glancing up; languidly bowed; and Camillaherself perceived him, and he saw her change colour as she inclinedher head. He gazed after them almost breathless, till the carriagedisappeared; and then reclosing the window, he sat down to collect histhoughts, and again to reason with himself. But still, as he reasoned, he saw ever before him that blush and that smile. At last he sprangup, and a noble and bright expression elevated the character of hisface, --"Yes, if I enter that house, if I eat that man's bread, and drinkof his cup, I must forego, not justice--not what is due to my mother'sname--but whatever belongs to hate and vengeance. If I enter thathouse--and if Providence permit me the means whereby to regain myrights, why she--the innocent one--she may be the means of saving herfather from ruin, and stand like an angel by that boundary where justiceruns into revenge!--Besides, is it not my duty to discover Sidney? Hereis the only clue I shall obtain. " With these thoughts he hesitated nomore--he decided he would not reject this hospitality, since it mightbe in his power to pay it back ten thousandfold. "And who knows, " hemurmured again, "if Heaven, in throwing this sweet being in my way, might not have designed to subdue and chasten in me the angry passions Ihave so long fed on? I have seen her, --can I now hate her father?"

He sent off his note accepting the invitation. When he had done so, washe satisfied? He had taken as noble and as large a view of the dutiesthereby imposed on him as he well could take: but something whisperedat his heart, "There is weakness in thy generosity--Darest thou love thedaughter of Robert Beaufort?" And his heart had no answer to this voice. 

The rapidity with which love is ripened depends less upon the actualnumber of years that have passed over the soil in which the seed iscast, than upon the freshness of the soil itself. A young man who livesthe ordinary life of the world, and who fritters away, rather thanexhausts, his feelings upon a variety of quick succeeding subjects--theCynthias of the minute--is not apt to form a real passion at the firstsight. Youth is inflammable only when the heart is young!

There are certain times of life when, in either sex, the affectionsare prepared, as it were, to be impressed with the first fair face thatattracts the fancy and delights the eye. Such times are when the hearthas been long solitary, and when some interval of idleness and restsucceeds to periods of harsher and more turbulent excitement. It wasprecisely such a period in the life of Vaudemont. Although his ambitionhad been for many years his dream, and his sword his mistress, yetnaturally affectionate, and susceptible of strong emotion, he had oftenrepined at his lonely lot. By degrees the boy's fantasy and reverencewhich had wound themselves round the image of Eugenie subsided into thatgentle and tender melancholy which, perhaps by weakening the strengthof the sterner thoughts, leaves us inclined rather to receive, than toresist, a new attachment;--and on the verge of the sweet Memory tremblesthe sweet Hope. The suspension of his profession, his schemes, hisstruggles, his career, left his passions unemployed. Vaudemont was thusunconsciously prepared to love. As we have seen, his first and earliestfeelings directed themselves to Fanny. But he had so immediatelydetected the clanger, and so immediately recoiled from nursing thosethoughts and fancies, without which love dies for want of food, for aperson to whom he ascribed the affliction of an imbecility which wouldgive to such a sentiment all the attributes either of the weakestrashness or of dishonour approaching to sacrilege--that the wings of thedeity were scared away the instant their very shadow fell upon his mind. And thus, when Camilla rose upon him his heart was free to receive herimage. Her graces, her accomplishments, a certain nameless charm thatinvested her, pleased him even more than her beauty; the recollectionsconnected with that first time in which he had ever beheld her, werealso grateful and endearing; the harshness with which her parents spoketo her moved his compassion, and addressed itself to a temper peculiarlyalive to the generosity that leans towards the weak and the wronged;the engaging mixture of mildness and gaiety with which she tendedher peevish and sneering uncle, convinced him of her better and moreenduring qualities of disposition and womanly heart. And even--sostrange and contradictory are our feelings--the very remembrance thatshe was connected with a family so hateful to him made her own image themore bright from the darkness that surrounded it. For was it not withthe daughter of his foe that the lover of Verona fell in love at firstsight? And is not that a common type of us all--as if Passion delightedin contradictions? As the Diver, in Schiller's exquisite ballad, fastened upon the rock of coral in the midst of the gloomy sea, so wecling the more gratefully to whatever of fair thought and gentle sheltersmiles out to us in the depths of Hate and Strife. 

But, perhaps, Vaudemont would not so suddenly and so utterly haverendered himself to a passion that began, already, completely to masterhis strong spirit, if he had not, from Camilla's embarrassment, hertimidity, her blushes, intoxicated himself with the belief that hisfeelings were not unshared. And who knows not that such a belief, oncecherished, ripens our own love to a development in which hours are asyears?

It was, then, with such emotions as made him almost insensible to everythought but the luxury of breathing the same air as his cousin, whichswept from his mind the Past, the Future--leaving nothing but a joyous, a breathless PRESENT on the Face of Time, that he repaired to BeaufortCourt. He did not return to H---- before he went, but he wrote to Fannya short and hurried line to explain that he might be absent for somedays at least, and promised to write again, if he should be detainedlonger than he anticipated. 

In the meanwhile, one of those successive revolutions which had markedthe eras in Fanny's moral existence took its date from that last timethey had walked and conversed together. 

The very evening of that day, some hours after Philip was gone, andafter Simon had retired to rest, Fanny was sitting before the dying firein the little parlour in an attitude of deep and pensive reverie. Theold woman-servant, Sarah, who, very different from Mrs. Boxer, lovedFanny with her whole heart, came into the room as was her wont beforegoing to bed, to see that the fire was duly out, and all safe: and asshe approached the hearth, she started to see Fanny still up. 

"Dear heart alive!" she said; "why, Miss Fanny, you will catch yourdeath of cold, -what are you thinking about?"

"Sit down, Sarah; I want to speak to you. " Now, though Fanny wasexceedingly kind, and attached to Sarah, she was seldom communicativeto her, or indeed to any one. It was usually in its own silence anddarkness that that lovely mind worked out its own doubts. 

"Do you, my sweet young lady? I'm sure anything I can do--" and Sarahseated herself in her master's great chair, and drew it close to Fanny. There was no light in the room but the expiring fire, and it threwupward a pale glimmer on the two faces bending over it, --the one sostrangely beautiful, so smooth, so blooming, so exquisite in its youthand innocence, --the other withered, wrinkled, meagre, and astute. It waslike the Fairy and the Witch together. 

"Well, miss, " said the crone, observing that, after a considerablepause, Fanny was still silent, --"Well--"

"Sarah, I have seen a wedding!"

"Have you?" and the old woman laughed. "Oh! I heard it was to beto-day!--young Waldron's wedding! Yes, they have been long sweethearts. "

"Were you ever married, Sarah?"

"Lord bless you, --yes! and a very good husband I had, poor man! But he'sdead these many years; and if you had not taken me, I must have gone tothe workhus. "

"He is dead! Wasn't it very hard to live after that, Sarah?"

"The Lord strengthens the hearts of widders!" observed Sarah, sanctimoniously. 

"Did you marry your brother, Sarah?" said Fanny, playing with the cornerof her apron. 

"My brother!" exclaimed the old woman, aghast. "La! miss, you must nottalk in that way, --it's quite wicked and heathenish! One must not marryone's brother!"

"No!" said Fanny, tremblingly, and turning very pale, even by thatlight. "No!--are you sure of that?"

"It is the wickedest thing even to talk about, my dear youngmistress;--but you're like a babby unborn!"

Fanny was silent for some moments. At length she said, unconscious thatshe was speaking aloud, "But he is not my brother, after all!"

"Oh, miss, fie! Are you letting your pretty head run on the handsomegentleman. You, too, --dear, dear! I see we're all alike, we poor femelcreturs! You! who'd have thought it? Oh, Miss Fanny!--you'll break yourheart if you goes for to fancy any such thing. "

"Any what thing?"

"Why, that that gentleman will marry you!--I'm sure, tho' he's so simplelike, he's some great gentleman! They say his hoss is worth a hundredpounds! Dear, dear! why didn't I ever think of this before? He must be avery wicked man. I see, now, why he comes here. I'll speak to him, that, I will!--a very wicked man!"

Sarah was startled from her indignation by Fanny's rising suddenly, and standing before her in the flickering twilight, almost like a shapetransformed, --so tall did she seem, so stately, so dignified. 

"Is it of him that you are speaking?" said she, in a voice of calm butdeep resentment--"of him! If so, Sarah, we two can live no more in thesame house. "

And these words were said with a propriety and collectedness that even, through all her terrors, showed at once to Sarah how much they nowwronged Fanny who had suffered their lips to repeat the parrot-cry ofthe "idiot girl!"

"O! gracious me!--miss--ma'am--I am so sorry--I'd rather bite out mytongue than say a word to offend you; it was only my love for you, dearinnocent creature that you are!" and the honest woman sobbed with realpassion as she clasped Fanny's hand. "There have been so many youngpersons, good and harmless, yes, even as you are, ruined. But you don'tunderstand me. Miss Fanny! hear me; I must try and say what I would say. That man, that gentleman--so proud, so well-dressed, so grand-like, willnever marry you, never--never. And if ever he says he does love you, andyou say you love him, and you two don't marry, you will be ruined andwicked, and die--die of a broken heart!"

The earnestness of Sarah's manner subdued and almost awed Fanny. Shesank down again in her chair, and suffered the old woman to caress andweep over her hand for some moments in a silence that concealed thedarkest and most agitated feelings Fanny's life had hitherto known. Atlength she said:--

"Why may he not marry me if he loves me?--he is not my brother, --indeedhe is not! I'll never call him so again. "

"He cannot marry you, " said Sarah, resolved, with a sort of rudenobleness, to persevere in what she felt to be a duty; "I don't sayanything about money, because that does not always signify. But hecannot marry you, because--because people who are hedicated one waynever marry those who are hedicated and brought up in another. Agentleman of that kind requires a wife to know--oh--to know ever somuch; and you--"

"Sarah, " interrupted Fanny, rising again, but this time with a smileon her face, "don't say anything more about it; I forgive you, if youpromise never to speak unkindly of him again--never--never--never, Sarah!"

"But may I just tell him that--that--"

"That what?"

"That you are so young and innocent, and has no pertector like; and thatif you were to love him it would be a shame in him--that it would!"

And then (oh, no, Fanny, there was nothing clouded now in yourreason!)--and then the woman's alarm, the modesty, the instinct, theterror came upon her:--

"Never! never! I will not love him, I do not love him, indeed, Sarah. If you speak to him, I will never look you in the face again. It is allpast--all, dear Sarah!"

She kissed the old woman; and Sarah, fancying that her sagacityand counsel had prevailed, promised all she was asked; so they wentup-stairs together--friends. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

 "As the wind Sobs, an uncertain sweetness comes from out The orange-trees. 

 Rise up, Olympia. --She sleeps soundly. Ho! Stirring at last. " BARRY CORNWALL. 

The next day, Fanny was seen by Sarah counting the little hoard that shehad so long and so painfully saved for her benefactor's tomb. The moneywas no longer wanted for that object. Fanny had found another; she saidnothing to Sarah or to Simon. But there was a strange complacent smileupon her lip as she busied herself in her work, that puzzled the oldwoman. Late at noon came the postman's unwonted knock at the door. Aletter!--a letter for Miss Fanny. A letter!--the first she had everreceived in her life! And it was from him!--and it began with "DearFanny. " Vaudemont had called her "dear Fanny" a hundred times, and theexpression had become a matter of course. But "Dear Fanny" seemedso very different when it was written. The letter could not well beshorter, nor, all things considered, colder. But the girl found no faultwith it. It began with "Dear Fanny, " and it ended with "yours truly. ""--Yours truly--mine truly--and how kind to write at all!" Now it sohappened that Vaudemont, having never merged the art of the penmaninto that rapid scrawl into which people, who are compelled towrite hurriedly and constantly, degenerate, wrote a remarkably goodhand, --bold, clear, symmetrical--almost too good a hand for one who wasnot to make money by caligraphy. And after Fanny had got the words byheart, she stole gently to a cupboard and took forth some specimens ofher own hand, in the shape of house and work memoranda, and extractswhich, the better to help her memory, she had made from the poem-bookVaudemont had given her. She gravely laid his letter by the side ofthese specimens, and blushed at the contrast; yet, after all, her ownwriting, though trembling and irresolute, was far from a bad or vulgarhand. But emulation was now fairly roused within her. Vaudemont, pre-occupied by more engrossing thoughts, and indeed, forgetting adanger which had seemed so thoroughly to have passed away, did not inhis letter caution Fanny against going out alone. She remarked this; andhaving completely recovered her own alarm at the attempt that had beenmade on her liberty, she thought she was now released from her promiseto guard against a past and imaginary peril. So after dinner she slippedout alone, and went to the mistress of the school where she had receivedher elementary education. She had ever since continued her acquaintancewith that lady, who, kindhearted, and touched by her situation, oftenemployed her industry, and was far from blind to the improvement thathad for some time been silently working in the mind of her old pupil. 

Fanny had a long conversation with this lady, and she brought back abundle of books. The light might have been seen that night, and manynights after, burning long and late from her little window. And havingrecovered her old freedom of habits, which Simon, poor man, did notnotice, and which Sarah, thinking that anything was better than mopingat home, did not remonstrate against, Fanny went out regularly for twohours, or sometimes for even a longer period, every evening afterold Simon had composed himself to the nap that filled up the intervalbetween dinner and tea. 

In a very short time--a time that with ordinary stimulants would haveseemed marvellously short--Fanny's handwriting was not the same thing;her manner of talking became different; she no longer called herself"Fanny" when she spoke; the music of her voice was more quiet andsettled; her sweet expression of face was more thoughtful; the eyesseemed to have deepened in their very colour; she was no longer heardchaunting to herself as she tripped along. The books that she nightlyfed on had passed into her mind; the poetry that had ever unconsciouslysported round her young years began now to create poetry in herself. Nay, it might almost have seemed as if that restless disorder of theintellect, which the dullards had called Idiotcy, had been the wildefforts, not of Folly, but of GENIUS seeking to find its path and outletfrom the cold and dreary solitude to which the circumstances of herearly life had compelled it. 

Days, even weeks, passed--she never spoke of Vaudemont. And once, whenSarah, astonished and bewildered by the change in her young mistress, asked:

"When does the gentleman come back?"

Fanny answered, with a mysterious smile, "Not yet, I hope, --not quiteyet!"

CHAPTER IX. 

 "Thierry. I do begin To feel an alteration in my nature, And in his full-sailed confidence a shower Of gentle rain, that falling on the fire Hath quenched it. 

 How is my heart divided Between the duty of a son and love!" BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: Thierry and Theodorat. 

Vaudemont had now been a month at Beaufort Court. The scene of acountry-house, with the sports that enliven it, and the accomplishmentsit calls forth, was one in which he was well fitted to shine. Hehad been an excellent shot as a boy; and though long unused to thefowling-piece, had, in India, acquired a deadly precision with therifle; so that a very few days of practice in the stubbles and covers ofBeaufort Court made his skill the theme of the guests and the admirationof the keepers. Hunting began, and--this pursuit, always so strong apassion in the active man, and which, to the turbulence and agitation ofhis half-tamed breast, now excited by a kind of frenzy of hope and fear, gave a vent and release--was a sport in which he was yet more fitted toexcel. His horsemanship, his daring, the stone walls he leaped and thefloods through which he dashed, furnished his companions with wonderingtale and comment on their return home. Mr. Marsden, who, with some otherof Arthur's early friends, had been invited to Beaufort Court, in orderto welcome its expected heir, and who retained all the prudence whichhad distinguished him of yore, when having ridden over old Simon hedismounted to examine the knees of his horse;--Mr. Marsden, a skilfulhuntsman, who rode the most experienced horses in the world, and whogenerally contrived to be in at the death without having leaped overanything higher than a hurdle, suffering the bolder quadruped (in casewhat is called the "knowledge of the country"--that is, the knowledge ofgaps and gates--failed him) to perform the more dangerous feats alone, as he quietly scrambled over or scrambled through upon foot, andremounted the well-taught animal when it halted after the exploit, safe and sound;--Mr. Marsden declared that he never saw a rider withso little judgment as Monsieur de Vaudemont, and that the devil wascertainly in him. 

This sort of reputation, commonplace and merely physical as it was initself, had a certain effect upon Camilla; it might be an effectof fear. I do not say, for I do not know, what her feelings towardsVaudemont exactly were. As the calmest natures are often those themost hurried away by their contraries, so, perhaps, he awed and dazzledrather than pleased her;--at least, he certainly forced himself on herinterest. Still she would have started in terror if any one had said toher, "Do you love your betrothed less than when you met by that happylake?"--and her heart would have indignantly rebuked the questioner. Theletters of her lover were still long and frequent; hers were briefer andmore subdued. But then there was constraint in the correspondence--itwas submitted to her mother. Whatever might be Vaudemont's manner toCamilla whenever occasion threw them alone together, he certainly didnot make his attentions glaring enough to be remarked. His eye watchedher rather than his lip addressed; he kept as much aloof as possiblefrom the rest of her family, and his customary bearing was silent evento gloom. But there were moments when he indulged in a fitful exuberanceof spirits, which had something strained and unnatural. He had outlivedLord Lilburne's short liking; for since he had resolved no longer tokeep watch on that noble gamester's method of play, he played butlittle himself; and Lord Lilburne saw that he had no chance of ruininghim--there was, therefore, no longer any reason to like him. But thiswas not all; when Vaudemont had been at the house somewhat more than twoweeks, Lilburne, petulant and impatient, whether at his refusals tojoin the card-table, or at the moderation with which, when he did, heconfined his ill-luck to petty losses, one day limped up to him, as hestood at the embrasure of the window, gazing on the wide lands beyond, and said:--

"Vaudemont, you are bolder in hunting, they tell me, than you are atwhist. "

"Honours don't tell against one--over a hedge!"

"What do you mean?" said Lilburne, rather haughtily. 

Vaudemont was, at that moment, in one of those bitter moods when thesense of his situation, the sight of the usurper in his home, oftenswept away the gentler thoughts inspired by his fatal passion. And thetone of Lord Lilburne, and his loathing to the man, were too much forhis temper. 

"Lord Lilburne, " he said, and his lip curled, "if you had been bornpoor, you would have made a great fortune--you play luckily. "

"How am I to take this, sir?"

"As you please, " answered Vaudemont, calmly, but with an eye of fire. And he turned away. 

Lilburne remained on the spot very thoughtful: "Hum! he suspects me. I cannot quarrel on such ground--the suspicion itself dishonours me--Imust seek another. "

The next day, Lilburne, who was familiar with Mr. Harsden (though thelatter gentleman never played at the same table), asked that prudentperson after breakfast if he happened to have his pistols with him. 

"Yes; I always take them into the country--one may as well practise whenone has the opportunity. Besides, sportsmen are often quarrelsome; andif it is known that one shoots well, --it keeps one out of quarrels!"

"Very true, " said Lilburne, rather admiringly. "I have made the sameremark myself when I was younger. I have not shot with a pistol forsince years. I am well enough now to walk out with the help of a stick. Suppose we practise for half-an-hour or so. "

"With all my heart, " said Mr. Marsden. 

The pistols were brought, and they strolled forth;--Lord Lilburne foundhis hand out. 

"As I never hunt now, " said the peer, and he gnashed his teeth, andglanced at his maimed limb; "for though lameness would not prevent mykeeping my seat, violent exercise hurts my leg; and Brodie says anyfresh accident might bring on tic douloureux;--and as my gout doesnot permit me to join the shooting parties at present, it would be akindness in you to lend me your pistols--it would while away an hour orso; though, thank Heaven, my duelling days are over!"

"Certainly, " said Mr. Marsden; and the pistols were consigned to LordLilburne. 

Four days from the date, as Mr. Marsden, Vaudemont, and some othergentlemen were making for the covers, they came upon Lord Lilburne, who, in a part of the park not within sight or sound of the house, wasamusing himself with Mr. Marsden's pistols, which Dykeman was at hand toload for him. 

He turned round, not at all disconcerted by the interruption. 

"You have no idea how I've improved, Marsden:--just see!" and he pointedto a glove nailed to a tree. "I've hit that mark twice in five times;and every time I have gone straight enough along the line to have killedmy man. "

"Ay, the mark itself does not so much signify, " said Mr. Marsden, "atleast, not in actual duelling--the great thing is to be in the line. "

While he spoke, Lord Lilburne's ball went a third time through theglove. His cold bright eye turned on Vaudemont, as he said, with asmile, --

"They tell me you shoot well with a fowling-piece, my dearVaudemont--are you equally adroit with a pistol?"

"You may see, if you like; but you take aim, Lord Lilburne; that wouldbe of no use in English duelling. Permit me. "

He walked to the glove, and tore from it one of the fingers, which hefastened separately to the tree, took the pistol from Dykeman as hewalked past him, gained the spot whence to fire, turned at once round, without apparent aim, and the finger fell to the ground. 

Lilburne stood aghast. 

"That's wonderful!" said Marsden; "quite wonderful. Where the devil didyou get such a knack?--for it is only knack after all!"

"I lived for many years in a country where the practice wasconstant, where all that belongs to rifle-shooting was a necessaryaccomplishment--a country in which man had often to contend against thewild beast. In civilised states, man himself supplies the place of thewild beast--but we don't hunt him!--Lord Lilburne" (and this was addedwith a smiling and disdainful whisper), "you must practise a littlemore. "

But, disregardful of the advice, from that day Lord Lilburne's morningoccupation was gone. He thought no longer of a duel with Vaudemont. Assoon as the sportsman had left him, he bade Dykeman take up the pistols, and walked straight home into the library, where Robert Beaufort, whowas no sportsman, generally spent his mornings. 

He flung himself into an arm-chair, and said, as he stirred the firewith unusual vehemence, --

"Beaufort, I'm very sorry I asked you to invite Vaudemont. He's avery ill-bred, disagreeable fellow!" Beaufort threw down his steward'saccount-book, on which he was employed, and replied, --

"Lilburne, I have never had an easy moment since that man has been inthe house. As he was your guest, I did not like to speak before, butdon't you observe--you must observe--how like he is to the old familyportraits? The more I have examined him, the more another resemblancegrows upon me. In a word, " said Robert, pausing and breathing hard, "ifhis name were not Vaudemont--if his history were not, apparently, sowell known, I should say--I should swear, that it is Philip Morton whosleeps under this roof!"

"Ha!" said Lilburne, with an earnestness that surprised Beaufort, whoexpected to have heard his brother-in-law's sneering sarcasm at hisfears; "the likeness you speak of to the old portraits did strike me;it struck Marsden, too, the other day, as we were passing through thepicture-gallery; and Marsden remarked it aloud to Vaudemont. I remembernow that he changed countenance and made no answer. Hush! hush! holdyour tongue, let me think--let me think. This Philip--yes--yes--I andArthur saw him with--with Gawtrey--in Paris--"

"Gawtrey! was that the name of the rogue he was said to--"

"Yes--yes--yes. Ah! now I guess the meaning of those looks--thosewords, " muttered Lilburne between his teeth. "This pretension to thename of Vaudemont was always apocryphal--the story always but halfbelieved--the invention of a woman in love with him--the claim on yourproperty is made at the very time he appears in England. Ha! Have you anewspaper there? Give it me. No! 'tis not in this paper. Ring the bellfor the file!"

"What's the matter? you terrify me!" gasped out Mr. Beaufort, as he rangthe bell. 

"Why! have you not seen an advertisement repeated several times withinthe last month?"

"I never read advertisements; except in the county paper, if land is tobe sold. "

"Nor I often; but this caught my eye. John" (here the servant entered), "bring the file of the newspapers. The name of the witness whom Mrs. Morton appealed to was Smith, the same name as the captain; what was theChristian name?"

"I don't remember. "

"Here are the papers--shut the door--and here is the advertisement: 'IfMr. William Smith, son of Jeremiah Smith, who formerly rented the farmof Shipdale-Bury, under the late Right Hon. Charles Leopold Beaufort(that's your uncle), and who emigrated in the year 18-- to Australia, will apply to Mr. Barlow, Solicitor, Essex Street, Strand, he will hearof something to his advantage. '"

"Good Heavens! why did not you mention this to me before?"

"Because I did not think it of any importance. In the first place, theremight be some legacy left to the man, quite distinct from your business. Indeed, that was the probable supposition;--or even if connected withthe claim, such an advertisement might be but a despicable attempt tofrighten you. Never mind--don't look so pale--after all, this is a proofthat the witness is not found--that Captain Smith is neither the Smith, nor has discovered where the Smith is!"

"True!" observed Mr. Beaufort: "true--very true!"

"Humph!" said Lord Lilburne, who was still rapidly glancing over thefile--"Here is another advertisement which I never saw before: thislooks suspicious: 'If the person who called on the -- of September, on Mr. Morton, linendraper, &c. , of N----, will renew his applicationpersonally or by letter, he may now obtain the information he soughtfor. '"

"Morton!--the woman's brother! their uncle! it is too clear!"

"But what brings this man, if he be really Philip Morton, what bringshim here!--to spy or to threaten?"

"I will get him out of the house this day. "

"No--no; turn the watch upon himself. I see now; he is attracted byyour daughter; sound her quietly; don't tell her to discourage hisconfidences; find out if he ever speaks of these Mortons. Ha! Irecollect--he has spoken to me of the Mortons, but vaguely--Iforget what. Humph! this is a man of spirit and daring--watch him, Isay, --watch him! When does Arthur came back?"

"He has been travelling so slowly, for he still complains of his health, and has had relapses; but he ought to be in Paris this week, perhaps heis there now. Good Heavens! he must not meet this man!"

"Do what I tell you! get out all from your daughter. Never fear: he cando nothing against you except by law. But if he really like Camilla--"

"He!--Philip Morton--the adventurer--the--"

"He is the eldest son: remember you thought even of accepting thesecond. He--nay find the witness--he may win his suit; if he likesCamilla, there may be a compromise. "

Mr. Beaufort felt as if turned to ice. 

"You think him likely to win this infamous suit, then?" he faltered. 

"Did not you guard against the possibility by securing the brother? Moreworth while to do it with this man. Hark ye! the politics of private arelike those of public life, --when the state can't crush a demagogue, itshould entice him over. If you can ruin this dog" (and Lilburne stampedhis foot fiercely, forgetful of the gout), "ruin him! hang him! If youcan't" (and here with a wry face he caressed the injured foot), "if youcan't ('sdeath, what a twinge!), and he can ruin you, --bring him intothe family, and make his secret ours! I must go and lie down--I haveoverexcited myself. "

In great perplexity Beaufort repaired at once to Camilla. His nervousagitation betrayed itself, though he smiled a ghastly smile, andintended to be exceeding cool and collected. His questions, whichconfused and alarmed her, soon drew out the fact that the very firsttime Vaudemont had been introduced to her he had spoken of the Mortons;and that he had often afterwards alluded to the subject, and seemed atfirst strongly impressed with the notion that the younger brother wasunder Beaufort's protection; though at last he appeared reluctantlyconvinced of the contrary. Robert, however agitated, preserved at leastenough of his natural slyness not to let out that he suspected Vaudemontto be Philip Morton himself, for he feared lest his daughter shouldbetray that suspicion to its object. 

"But, " he said, with a look meant to win confidence, "I dare say heknows these young men. I should like myself to know more about them. Learn all you can, and tell me, and, I say--I say, Camilla, --he! he!he!--you have made a conquest, you little flirt, you! Did he, thisVaudemont, ever say how much he admired you?"

"He!--never!" said Camilla, blushing, and then turning pale. 

"But he looks it. Ah! you say nothing, then. Well, well, don'tdiscourage him; that is to say, --yes, don't discourage him. Talk to himas much as you can, --ask him about his own early life. I've a particularwish to know--'tis of great importance to me. "

"But, my dear father, " said Camilla, trembling and thoroughlybewildered, "I fear this man, --I fear--I fear--"

Was she going to add, "I fear myself?" I know not; but she stoppedshort, and burst into tears. 

"Hang these girls!" muttered Mr. Beaufort, "always crying when theyought to be of use to one. Go down, dry your eyes, do as I tellyou, --get all you can from him. Fear him!--yes, I dare say she does!"muttered the poor man, as he closed the door. 

From that time what wonder that Camilla's manner to Vaudemont was yetmore embarrassed than ever: what wonder that he put his own heart'sinterpretation on that confusion. Beaufort took care to thrust her moreoften than before in his way; he suddenly affected a creeping, fawningcivility to Vaudemont; he was sure he was fond of music; what did hethink of that new air Camilla was so fond of? He must be a judge ofscenery, he who had seen so much: there were beautiful landscapes inthe neighbourhood, and, if he would forego his sports, Camilla drewprettily, had an eye for that sort of thing, and was so fond of riding. 

Vaudemont was astonished at this change, but his delight was greaterthan the astonishment. He began to perceive that his identity wassuspected; perhaps Beaufort, more generous than he had deemed him, meantto repay every early wrong or harshness by one inestimable blessing. The generous interpret motives in extremes--ever too enthusiastic ortoo severe. Vaudemont felt as if he had wronged the wronger; he began toconquer even his dislike to Robert Beaufort. For some days he was thusthrown much with Camilla; the questions her father forced her to putto him, uttered tremulously and fearfully, seemed to him proof ofher interest in his fate. His feelings to Camilla, so sudden intheir growth--so ripened and so favoured by the Sub-Ruler of theworld--CIRCUMSTANCE--might not, perhaps, have the depth and thecalm completeness of that, One True Love, of which there are manycounterfeits, --and which in Man, at least, possibly requires the touchand mellowness, if not of time, at least of many memories--of perfectand tried conviction of the faith, the worth, the value and the beautyof the heart to which it clings;--but those feelings were, nevertheless, strong, ardent, and intense. He believed himself beloved--he was inElysium. But he did not yet declare the passion that beamed in his eyes. No! he would not yet claim the hand of Camilla Beaufort, for he imaginedthe time would soon come when he could claim it, not as the inferior orthe suppliant, but as the lord of her father's fate. 

CHAPTER X. 

 "Here's something got amongst us!"--Knight of Malta. 

Two or three nights after his memorable conversation with RobertBeaufort, as Lord Lilburne was undressing, he said to his valet:

"Dykeman, I am getting well. "

"Indeed, my lord, I never saw your lordship look better. "

"There you lie. I looked better last year--I looked better the yearbefore--and I looked better and better every year back to the age oftwenty-one! But I'm not talking of looks, no man with money wants looks. I am talking of feelings. I feel better. The gout is almost gone. I havebeen quiet now for a month--that's a long time--time wasted when, atmy age, I have so little time to waste. Besides, as you know, I am verymuch in love!"

"In love, my lord? I thought that you told me never to speak of--"

"Blockhead! what the deuce was the good of speaking about it when I waswrapped in flannels! I am never in love when I am ill--who is? I am wellnow, or nearly so; and I've had things to vex me--things to make thisplace very disagreeable; I shall go to town, and before this day week, perhaps, that charming face may enliven the solitude of Fernside. Ishall look to it myself now. I see you're going to say something. Spareyourself the trouble! nothing ever goes wrong if I myself take it inhand. "

The next day Lord Lilburne, who, in truth, felt himself uncomfortableand gene in the presence of Vaudemont; who had won as much as the guestsat Beaufort Court seemed inclined to lose; and who made it the rule ofhis life to consult his own pleasure and amusement before anythingelse, sent for his post-horses, and informed his brother-in-law of hisdeparture. 

"And you leave me alone with this man just when I am convinced that heis the person we suspected! My dear Lilburne, do stay till he goes. "

"Impossible! I am between fifty and sixty--every moment is precious atthat time of life. Besides, I've said all I can say; rest quiet--act onthe defensive--entangle this cursed Vaudemont, or Morton, or whoever hebe, in the mesh of your daughter's charms, and then get rid of him, notbefore. This can do no harm, let the matter turn out how it will. Read the papers; and send for Blackwell if you want advice on any, newadvertisements. I don't see that anything more is to be done at present. You can write to me; I shall be at Park Lane or Fernside. Take care ofyourself. You're a lucky fellow--you never have the gout! Good-bye. "

And in half an hour Lord Lilburne was on the road to London. 

The departure of Lilburne was a signal to many others, especially andnaturally to those he himself had invited. He had not announced to suchvisitors his intention of going till his carriage was at the door. Thismight be delicacy or carelessness, just as people chose to take it: andhow they did take it, Lord Lilburne, much too selfish to be well-bred, did not care a rush. The next day half at least of the guests weregone; and even Mr. Marsden, who had been specially invited on Arthur'saccount, announced that he should go after dinner! he always travelledby night--he slept well on the road--a day was not lost by it. 

"And it is so long since you saw Arthur, " said Mr. Beaufort, inremonstrance, "and I expect him every day. "

"Very sorry--best fellow in the world--but the fact is, that I amnot very well myself. I want a little sea air; I shall go to Doveror Brighton. But I suppose you will have the house full again aboutChristmas; in that case I shall be delighted to repeat my visit. "

The fact was, that Mr. Marsden, without Lilburne's intellect on the onehand, or vices on the other, was, like that noble sensualist, one ofthe broken pieces of the great looking-glass "SELF. " He was noticed insociety as always haunting the places where Lilburne played at cards, carefully choosing some other table, and as carefully betting uponLilburne's side. The card-tables were now broken up; Vaudemont'ssuperiority in shooting, and the manner in which he engrossed the talkof the sportsmen, displeased him. He was bored--he wanted to be off-andoff he went. Vaudemont felt that the time was come for him to depart, too; Robert Beaufort--who felt in his society the painful fascinationof the bird with the boa, who hated to see him there, and dreaded tosee him depart, who had not yet extracted all the confirmation of hispersuasions that he required, for Vaudemont easily enough parriedthe artless questions of Camilla--pressed him to stay with so eager ahospitality, and made Camilla herself falter out, against her will, and even against her remonstrances--(she never before had dared toremonstrate with either father or mother), --"Could not you stay a fewdays longer?"--that Vaudemont was too contented to yield to his owninclinations; and so for some little time longer he continued tomove before the eyes of Mr. Beaufort--stern, sinister, silent, mysterious--like one of the family pictures stepped down from its frame. Vaudemont wrote, however, to Fanny, to excuse his delay; and anxiousto hear from her as to her own and Simon's health, bade her direct herletter to his lodging in London (of which he gave her the address), whence, if he still continued to defer his departure, it would beforwarded to him. He did not do this, however, till he had been atBeaufort Court several days after Lilburne's departure, and till, infact, two days before the eventful one which closed his visit. 

The party, now greatly diminished; were at breakfast, when the servantentered, as usual, with the letter-bag. Mr. Beaufort, who was alwaysimportant and pompous in the small ceremonials of life, unlocked theprecious deposit with slow dignity, drew forth the newspapers, which hethrew on the table, and which the gentlemen of the party eagerly seized;then, diving out one by one, jerked first a letter to Camilla, next aletter to Vaudemont, and, thirdly, seized a letter for himself. 

"I beg that there may be no ceremony, Monsieur de Vaudemont: pray excuseme and follow my example: I see this letter is from my son;" and hebroke the seal. 

The letter ran thus:

"MY DEAR FATHER, --Almost as soon as you receive this, I shall be withyou. Ill as I am, I can have no peace till I see and consult you. Themost startling--the most painful intelligence has just been conveyed tome. It is of a nature not to bear any but personal communication. 

 "Your affectionate son, "ARTHUR BEAUFORT. "Boulogne. 

"P. S. --This will go by the same packet-boat that I shall take myself, and can only reach you a few hours before I arrive. "

Mr. Beaufort's trembling hand dropped the letter--he grasped the elbowof the chair to save himself from falling. It was clear!--the samevisitor who had persecuted himself had now sought his son! He grewsick, his son might have heard the witness--might be convinced. His sonhimself now appeared to him as a foe--for the father dreaded the son'shonour! He glanced furtively round the table, till his eye rested onVaudemont, and his terror was redoubled, for Vaudemont's face, usuallyso calm, was animated to an extraordinary degree, as he now lifted itfrom the letter he had just read. Their eyes met. Robert Beaufort lookedon him as a prisoner at the bar looks on the accusing counsel, when hefirst commences his harangue. 

"Mr. Beaufort, " said the guest, "the letter you have given me summons meto London on important business, and immediately. Suffer me to send forhorses at your earliest convenience. "

"What's the matter?" said the feeble and seldom heard voice of Mrs. Beaufort. "What's the matter, Robert?--is Arthur coming?"

"He comes to-day, " said the father, with a deep sigh; and Vaudemont, at that moment rising from his half-finished breakfast, with a bow thatincluded the group, and with a glance that lingered on Camilla, as shebent over her own unopened letter (a letter from Winandermere, the sealof which she dared not yet to break), quitted the room. He hastened tohis own chamber, and strode to and fro with a stately step--the stepof the Master--then, taking forth the letter, he again hurried over itscontents. They ran thus:

DEAR, Sir, --At last the missing witness has applied to me. He provesto be, as you conjectured, the same person who had called on Mr. RogerMorton; but as there are some circumstances on which I wish to take yourinstructions without a moment's delay, I shall leave London by the mail, and wait you at D---- (at the principal inn), which is, I understand, twenty miles on the high road from Beaufort Court. 

 "I have the honor to be, sir, "Yours, &c. , "JOHN BARLOW. 

Vaudemont was yet lost in the emotions that this letter aroused, whenthey came to announce that his chaise was arrived. As he went down thestairs he met Camilla, who was on the way to her own room. 

"Miss Beaufort, " said he, in a low and tremulous voice, "in wishing youfarewell I may not now say more. I leave you, and, strange to say, Ido not regret it, for I go upon an errand that may entitle me to returnagain, and speak those thoughts which are uppermost in my soul even atthis moment. "

He raised her hand to his lips as he spoke, and at that moment Mr. Beaufort looked from the door of his own room, and cried, "Camilla. "She was too glad to escape. Philip gazed after her light form for aninstant, and then hurried down the stairs. 

CHAPTER XI. 

 "Longueville. --What! are you married, Beaufort? Beaufort. --Ay, as fast As words, and hands, and hearts, and priest, Could make us. "--BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: Noble Gentleman. 

In the parlour of the inn at D------ sat Mr. John Barlow. He had justfinished his breakfast, and was writing letters and looking over papersconnected with his various business--when the door was thrown open, anda gentleman entered abruptly. 

"Mr. Beaufort, " said the lawyer rising, "Mr. Philip Beaufort--for such Inow feel you are by right--though, " he added, with his usual formal andquiet smile, "not yet by law; and much--very much, remains to be doneto make the law and the right the same;--I congratulate you on havingsomething at last to work on. I had begun to despair of findingour witness, after a month's advertising; and had commenced otherinvestigations, of which I will speak to you presently, when yesterday, on my return to town from an errand on your business, I had the pleasureof a visit from William Smith himself. --My dear sir, do not yet be toosanguine. --It seems that this poor fellow, having known misfortune, wasin America when the first fruitless inquiries were made. Long after thishe returned to the colony, and there met with a brother, who, as I drewfrom him, was a convict. He helped the brother to escape. They both cameto England. William learned from a distant relation, who lent himsome little money, of the inquiry that had been set on foot for him;consulted his brother, who desired him to leave all to his management. The brother afterwards assured him that you and Mr. Sidney were bothdead; and it seems (for the witness is simple enough to allow me toextract all) this same brother then went to Mr. Beaufort to hold outthe threat of a lawsuit, and to offer the sale of the evidence yetexisting--"

"And Mr. Beaufort?"

"I am happy to say, seems to have spurned the offer. Meanwhile William, incredulous of his brother's report, proceeded to N----, learned nothingfrom Mr. Morton, met his brother again--and the brother (confessing thathe had deceived him in the assertion that you and Mr. Sidney were dead)told him that he had known you in earlier life, and set out to Paris toseek you--"

"Known me?--To Paris?"

"More of this presently. William returned to town, living hardly andpenuriously on the little his brother bestowed on him, too melancholyand too poor for the luxury of a newspaper, and never saw ouradvertisement, till, as luck would have it, his money was out; he hadheard nothing further of his brother, and he went for new assistanceto the same relation who had before aided him. This relation, to hissurprise, received the poor man very kindly, lent him what he wanted, and then asked him if he had not seen our advertisement. The newspapershown him contained both the advertisements--that relating to Mr. Morton's visitor, that containing his own name. He coupled them bothtogether--called on me at once. I was from town on your business. Hereturned to his own home; the next morning (yesterday morning) came aletter from his brother, which I obtained from him at last, and withpromises that no harm should happen to the writer on account of it. "

Vaudemont took the letter and read as follows:

"DEAR WILLIAM, --No go about the youngster I went after: all researchesin vane. Paris develish expensive. Never mind, I have sene theother--the young B--; different sort of fellow from his father--veryill--frightened out of his wits--will go off to the governor, take mewith him as far as Bullone. I think we shall settel it now. Mind asI saide before, don't put your foot in it. I send you a Nap in theSeele--all I can spare. 

 "Yours, "JEREMIAH SMITH. 

"Direct to me, Monsieur Smith--always a safe name--Ship Inn, Bullone. "

"Jeremiah--Smith--Jeremiah!"

"Do you know the name then?" said Mr. Barlow. "Well; the poor man ownsthat he was frightened at his brother--that he wished to do what isright--that he feared his brother would not let him--that your fatherwas very kind to him--and so he came off at once to me; and I was veryluckily at home to assure him that the heir was alive, and prepared toassert his rights. Now then, Mr. Beaufort, we have the witness, but willthat suffice us? I fear not. Will the jury believe him with no othertestimony at his back? Consider!--When he was gone I put myself incommunication with some officers at Bow Street about this brother ofhis--a most notorious character, commonly called in the police slangDashing Jerry--"

"Ah! Well, proceed!"

"Your one witness, then, is a very poor, penniless man, his brother arogue, a convict: this witness, too, is the most timid, fluctuating, irresolute fellow I ever saw; I should tremble for his testimony againsta sharp, bullying lawyer. And that, sir, is all at present we have tolook to. "

"I see--I see. It is dangerous--it is hazardous. But truth is truth;justice--justice! I will run the risk. "

"Pardon me, if I ask, did you ever know this brother?--were you everabsolutely acquainted with him--in the same house?"

"Many years since--years of early hardship and trial--I was acquaintedwith him--what then?"

"I am sorry to hear it, " and the lawyer looked grave. "Do you not seethat if this witness is browbeat--is disbelieved, and if it be shownthat you, the claimant, was--forgive my saying it--intimate with abrother of such a character, why the whole thing might be made to looklike perjury and conspiracy. If we stop here it is an ugly business!"

"And is this all you have to say to me? The witness is found--the onlysurviving witness--the only proof I ever shall or ever can obtain, and you seek to terrify me--me too--from using the means for redressProvidence itself vouchsafes me--Sir, I will not hear you!"

"Mr. Beaufort, you are impatient--it is natural. But if we go tolaw--that is, should I have anything to do with it, wait--wait till yourcase is good. And hear me yet. This is not the only proof--this is notthe only witness; you forget that there was an examined copy of theregister; we may yet find that copy, and the person who copied it mayyet be alive to attest it. Occupied with this thought, and weary ofwaiting the result of our advertisement, I resolved to go into theneighbourhood of Fernside; luckily, there was a gentleman's seat tobe sold in the village. I made the survey of this place my apparentbusiness. After going over the house, I appeared anxious to see how farsome alterations could be made--alterations to render it more like LordLilburne's villa. This led me to request a sight of that villa--a crownto the housekeeper got me admittance. The housekeeper had lived withyour father, and been retained by his lordship. I soon, therefore, knewwhich were the rooms the late Mr. Beaufort had principally occupied;shown into his study, where it was probable he would keep his papers, Iinquired if it were the same furniture (which seemed likely enough fromits age and fashion) as in your father's time: it was so; Lord Lilburnehad bought the house just as it stood, and, save a few additions in thedrawing-room, the general equipment of the villa remained unaltered. You look impatient!--I'm coming to the point. My eye fell upon anold-fashioned bureau--"

"But we searched every drawer in that bureau!"

"Any secret drawers?"

"Secret drawers! No! there were no secret drawers that I ever heard of!"

Mr. Barlow rubbed his hands and mused a moment. 

"I was struck with that bureau; for any father had had one like it. Itis not English--it is of Dutch manufacture. "

"Yes, I have heard that my father bought it at a sale, three or fouryears after his marriage. "

"I learned this from the housekeeper, who was flattered by my admiringit. I could not find out from her at what sale it had been purchased, but it was in the neighbourhood she was sure. I had now a date to goupon; I learned, by careless inquiries, what sales near Fernside hadtaken place in a certain year. A gentleman had died at that date whosefurniture was sold by auction. With great difficulty, I found that hiswidow was still alive, living far up the country: I paid her a visit;and, not to fatigue you with too long an account, I have only to saythat she not only assured me that she perfectly remembered the bureau, but that it had secret drawers and wells, very curiously contrived;nay, she showed me the very catalogue in which the said receptacles arenoticed in capitals, to arrest the eye of the bidder, and increase theprice of the bidding. That your father should never have revealed wherehe stowed this document is natural enough, during the life of his uncle;his own life was not spared long enough to give him much opportunityto explain afterwards, but I feel perfectly persuaded in my mind--thatunless Mr. Robert Beaufort discovered that paper amongst the othershe examined--in one of those drawers will be found all we want tosubstantiate your claims. This is the more likely from your father nevermentioning, even to your mother apparently, the secret receptacles inthe bureau. Why else such mystery? The probability is that he receivedthe document either just before or at the time he purchased the bureau, or that he bought it for that very purpose: and, having once depositedthe paper in a place he deemed secure from curiosity--accident, carelessness, policy, perhaps, rather shame itself (pardon me) for thedoubt of your mother's discretion, that his secrecy seemed to imply, kept him from ever alluding to the circumstance, even when the intimacyof after years made him more assured of your mother's self-sacrificingdevotion to his interests. At his uncle's death he thought to repairall!"

"And how, if that be true--if that Heaven which has delivered mehitherto from so many dangers, has, in the very secrecy of my poorfather, saved my birthright front the gripe of the usurper--how, I say, is---"

"The bureau to pass into our possession? That is the difficulty. But wemust contrive it somehow, if all else fail us; meanwhile, as I now feelsure that there has been a copy of that register made, I wish to knowwhether I should not immediately cross the country into Wales, and seeif I can find any person in the neighbourhood of A----- who did examinethe copy taken: for, mark you, the said copy is only of importance asleading to the testimony of the actual witness who took it. "

"Sir, " said Vaudemont, heartily shaking Mr. Barlow by the hand, "forgivemy first petulance. I see in you the very man I desired and wanted--youracuteness surprises and encourages me. Go to Wales, and God speed you!"

"Very well!--in five minutes I shall be off. Meanwhile, see the witnessyourself; the sight of his benefactor's son will do more to keep himsteady than anything else. There's his address, and take care not togive him money. And now I will order my chaise--the matter begins tolook worth expense. Oh! I forgot to say that Monsieur Liancourt calledon you yesterday about his own affairs. He wishes much to consult you. I told him you would probably be this evening in town, and he said hewould wait you at your lodging. "

"Yes--I will lose not a moment in going to London, and visiting ourwitness. And he saw my mother at the altar! My poor mother--Ah, howcould my father have doubted her!" and as he spoke, he blushed for thefirst time with shame at that father's memory. He could not yet conceivethat one so frank, one usually so bold and open, could for years havepreserved from the woman who had sacrificed all to him, a secret to herso important! That was, in fact, the only blot on his father's honour--afoul and grave blot it was. Heavily had the punishment fallen on thosewhom the father loved best! Alas, Philip had not yet learned whatterrible corrupters are the Hope and the Fear of immense Wealthy, even to men reputed the most honourable, if they have been reared andpampered in the belief that wealth is the Arch blessing of life. Rightlyconsidered, in Philip Beaufort's solitary meanness lay the vast moral ofthis world's darkest truth!

Mr. Barlow was gone. Philip was about to enter his own chaise, when adormeuse-and-four drove up to the inn-door to change horses. A young manwas reclining, at his length, in the carriage, wrapped in cloaks, andwith a ghastly paleness--the paleness of long and deep disease upon hischeeks. He turned his dim eye with, perhaps, a glance of the sick man'senvy on that strong and athletic, form, majestic with health and vigour, as it stood beside the more humble vehicle. Philip did not, however, notice the new arrival; he sprang into the chaise, it rattled on, andthus, unconsciously, Arthur Beaufort and his cousin had again met. Towhich was now the Night--to which the Morning?

CHAPTER XII. 

 "Bakam. Let my men guard the walls. Syana. And mine the temple. "--The Island Princess. 

While thus eventfully the days and the weeks had passed for Philip, noless eventfully, so far as the inner life is concerned, had they glidedaway for Fanny. She had feasted in quiet and delighted thought on theconsciousness that she was improving--that she was growing worthierof him--that he would perceive it on his return. Her manner was morethoughtful, more collected--less childish, in short, than it had been. And yet, with all the stir and flutter of the aroused intellect, thecharm of her strange innocence was not scared away. She rejoiced in theancient liberty she had regained of going out and coming back when shepleased; and as the weather was too cold ever to tempt Simon from hisfireside, except, perhaps, for half-an-hour in the forenoon, so thehours of dusk, when he least missed her, were those which she chieflyappropriated for stealing away to the good school-mistress, and growingwiser and wiser every day in the ways of God and the learning of Hiscreatures. The schoolmistress was not a brilliant woman. Nor was itaccomplishments of which Fanny stood in need, so much as the openingof her thoughts and mind by profitable books and rational conversation. Beautiful as were all her natural feelings, the schoolmistress had nowlittle difficulty in educating feelings up to the dignity of principles. 

At last, hitherto patient under the absence of one never absent from herheart, Fanny received from him the letter he had addressed to hertwo days before he quitted Beaufort Court;--another letter--a secondletter--a letter to excuse himself for not coming before--a letterthat gave her an address that asked for a reply. It was a morning ofunequalled delight approaching to transport. And then the excitement ofanswering the letter--the pride of showing how she was improved, what anexcellent hand she now wrote! She shut herself up in her room: shedid not go out that day. She placed the paper before her, and, to herastonishment, all that she had to say vanished from her mind at once. How was she even to begin? She had always hitherto called him "Brother. "Ever since her conversation with Sarah she felt that she could not callhim that name again for the world--no, never! But what should she callhim--what could she call him? He signed himself "Philip. " She knew thatwas his name. She thought it a musical name to utter, but to write it!No! some instinct she could not account for seemed to whisper thatit was improper--presumptuous, to call him "Dear Philip. " Had Burns'ssongs--the songs that unthinkingly he had put into her hand, and toldher to read--songs that comprise the most beautiful love-poems in theworld--had they helped to teach her some of the secrets of her ownheart? And had timidity come with knowledge? Who shall say--who guesswhat passed within her? Nor did Fanny herself, perhaps, know her ownfeelings: but write the words "Dear Philip" she could not. And the wholeof that day, though she thought of nothing else, she could not even getthrough the first line to her satisfaction. The next morning she satdown again. It would be so unkind if she did not answer immediately: shemust answer. She placed his letter before her--she resolutely began. But copy after copy was made and torn. And Simon wanted her--and Sarahwanted her--and there were bills to be paid; and dinner was over beforeher task was really begun. But after dinner she began in good earnest. 

"How kind in you to write to me" (the difficulty of any name wasdispensed with by adopting none), "and to wish to know about my deargrandfather! He is much the same, but hardly ever walks out now, and Ihave had a good deal of time to myself. I think something will surpriseyou, and make you smile, as you used to do at first, when you comeback. You must not be angry with me that I have gone out by myself veryoften--every day, indeed. I have been so safe. Nobody has ever offeredto be rude again to Fanny" (the word "Fanny" was carefully scratched outwith a penknife, and me substituted). "But you shall know all when youcome. And are you sure you are well--quite--quite well? Do you neverhave the headaches you complained of sometimes? Do say this? Do you walkout-every day? Is there any pretty churchyard near you now? Whom do youwalk with?

"I have been so happy in putting the flowers on the two graves. But Istill give yours the prettiest, though the other is so dear to me. Ifeel sad when I come to the last, but not when I look at the one I havelooked at so long. Oh, how good you were! But you don't like me to thankyou. "

"This is very stupid!" cried Fanny, suddenly throwing down her pen; "andI don't think I am improved at it;" and she half cried with vexation. Suddenly a bright idea crossed her. In the little parlour where theschoolmistress privately received her, she had seen among the books, and thought at the time how useful it might be to her if ever she had towrite to Philip, a little volume entitled, The Complete LetterWriter. She knew by the title-page that it contained models for everydescription of letter--no doubt it would contain the precise thing thatwould suit the present occasion. She started up at the notion. She wouldgo--she could be back to finish the letter before post-time. She put onher bonnet--left the letter, in her haste, open on the table--and justlooking into the parlour in her way to the street door, to convinceherself that Simon was asleep, and the wire-guard was on the fire, shehurried to the kind schoolmistress. 

One of the fogs that in autumn gather sullenly over London and itssuburbs covered the declining day with premature dimness. It grew darkerand darker as she proceeded, but she reached the house in safety. Shespent a quarter of an hour in timidly consulting her friend about allkinds of letters except the identical one that she intended to write, and having had it strongly impressed on her mind that if the letter wasto a gentleman at all genteel, she ought to begin "Dear Sir, " and endwith "I have the honour to remain;" and that he would be everlastinglyoffended if she did not in the address affix "Esquire" to his name(that, was a great discovery), --she carried off the precious volume, andquitted the house. There was a wall that, bounding the demesnes of theschool, ran for some short distance into the main street. The increasingfog, here, faintly struggled against the glimmer of a single lamp atsome little distance. Just in this spot, her eye was caught by a darkobject in the road, which she could scarcely perceive to be a carriage, when her hand was seized, and a voice said in her ear:--

"Ah! you will not be so cruel to me, I hope, as you were to mymessenger! I have come myself for you. "

She turned in great alarm, but the darkness prevented her recognisingthe face of him who thus accosted her. "Let me go!" she cried, --"let mego!"

"Hush! hush! No--no. Come with me. You shall have ahouse--carriage--servants! You shall wear silk gowns and jewels! Youshall be a great lady!"

As these various temptations succeeded in rapid course each new struggleof Fanny, a voice from the coach-box said in a low tone, --

"Take care, my lord, I see somebody coming--perhaps a policeman!"

Fanny heard the caution, and screamed for rescue. 

"Is it so?" muttered the molester. And suddenly Fanny felt her voicechecked--her head mantled--her light form lifted from the ground. Sheclung--she struggled it was in vain. It was the affair of a moment: shefelt herself borne into the carriage--the door closed--the stranger wasby her side, and his voice said:--

"Drive on, Dykeman. Fast! fast!"

Two or three minutes, which seemed to her terror as ages, elapsed, whenthe gag and the mantle were gently removed, and the same voice (shestill could not see her companion) said in a very mild tone:--

"Do not alarm yourself; there is no cause, --indeed there is not. I wouldnot have adopted this plan had there been any other--any gentler one. But I could not call at your own house--I knew no other where to meetyou. 

"This was the only course left to me--indeed it was. I made myselfacquainted with your movements. Do not blame me, then, for prying intoyour footsteps. I watched for you all last night-you did not come out. I was in despair. At last I find you. Do not be so terrified: I will noteven touch your hand if you do not wish it. "

As he spoke, however, he attempted to touch it, and was repulsed withan energy that rather disconcerted him. The poor girl recoiled from himinto the farthest corner of that prison in speechless horror--in thedarkest confusion of ideas. She did not weep--she did not sob--buther trembling seemed to shake the very carriage. The man continued toaddress, to expostulate, to pray, to soothe. 

His manner was respectful. His protestations that he would not harm herfor the world were endless. 

"Only just see the home I can give you; for two days--for one day. Onlyjust hear how rich I can make you and your grandfather, and then if youwish to leave me, you shall. "

More, much more, to this effect, did he continue to pour forth, withoutextracting any sound from Fanny but gasps as for breath, and now andthen a low murmur:

"Let me go, let me go! My grandfather, my blind grandfather!"

And finally tears came to her relief, and she sobbed with a passion thatalarmed, and perhaps even touched her companion, cynical and icy ashe was. Meanwhile the carriage seemed to fly. Fast as two horses, thorough-bred, and almost at full speed, could go, they were whirledalong, till about an hour, or even less, from the time in which she hadbeen thus captured, the carriage stopped. 

"Are we here already?" said the man, putting his head out of the window. "Do then as I told you. Not to the front door; to my study. "

In two minutes more the carriage halted again, before a building whichlooked white and ghostlike through the mist. The driver dismounted, opened with a latch-key a window-door, entered for a moment to lightthe candles in a solitary room from a fire that blazed on the hearth, reappeared, and opened the carriage-door. It was with a difficulty forwhich they were scarcely prepared that they were enabled to get Fannyfrom the carriage. No soft words, no whispered prayers could draw herforth; and it was with no trifling address, for her companion soughtto be as gentle as the force necessary to employ would allow, that hedisengaged her hands from the window-frame, the lining, the cushions, towhich they clung; and at last bore her into the house. The driver closedthe window again as he retreated, and they were alone. Fanny then casta wild, scarce conscious glance over the apartment. It was small andsimply furnished. Opposite to her was an old-fashioned bureau, one ofthose quaint, elaborate monuments of Dutch ingenuity, which, duringthe present century, the audacious spirit of curiosity-vendors hastransplanted from their native receptacles, to contrast, with grotesquestrangeness, the neat handiwork of Gillow and Seddon. It had aphysiognomy and character of its own--this fantastic foreigner! Inlaidwith mosaics, depicting landscapes and animals; graceless in formand fashion, but still picturesque, and winning admiration, when moreclosely observed, from the patient defiance of all rules of tastewhich had formed its cumbrous parts into one profusely ornamented andeccentric whole. It was the more noticeable from its total want ofharmony with the other appurtenances of the room, which bespokethe tastes of the plain English squire. Prints of horses and hunts, fishing-rods and fowling-pieces, carefully suspended, decorated thewalls. Not, however, on this notable stranger from the sluggish landrested the eye of Fanny. That, in her hurried survey, was arrested onlyby a portrait placed over the bureau--the portrait of a female in thebloom of life; a face so fair, a brow so candid, and eyes so pure, alip so rich in youth and joy--that as her look lingered on the featuresFanny felt comforted, felt as if some living protectress were there. Thefire burned bright and merrily; a table, spread as for dinner, was drawnnear it. To any other eye but Fanny's the place would have seemed apicture of English comfort. At last her looks rested on her companion. He had thrown himself, with a long sigh, partly of fatigue, partly ofsatisfaction, on one of the chairs, and was contemplating her as shethus stood and gazed, with an expression of mingled curiosity andadmiration; she recognised at once her first, her only persecutor. Sherecoiled, and covered her face with her hands. The man approached her:--

"Do not hate me, Fanny, --do not turn away. Believe me, though I haveacted thus violently, here all violence will cease. I love you, but Iwill not be satisfied till you love me in return. I am not young, andI am not handsome, but I am rich and great, and I can make those whom Ilove happy, --so happy, Fanny!"

But Fanny had turned away, and was now busily employed in trying tore-open the door at which she had entered. Failing in this, she suddenlydarted away, opened the inner door, and rushed into the passage with aloud cry. Her persecutor stifled an oath, and sprung after and arrestedher. He now spoke sternly, and with a smile and a frown at once:--

"This is folly;--come back, or you will repent it! I have promised you, as a gentleman--as a nobleman, if you know what that is--to respect you. But neither will I myself be trifled with nor insulted. There must be noscreams!"

His look and his voice awed Fanny in spite of her bewilderment and herloathing, and she suffered herself passively to be drawn into the room. He closed and bolted the door. She threw herself on the ground in onecorner, and moaned low but piteously. He looked at her musingly for somemoments, as he stood by the fire, and at last went to the door, openedit, and called "Harriet" in a low voice. Presently a young woman, ofabout thirty, appeared, neatly but plainly dressed, and of a countenancethat, if not very winning, might certainly be called very handsome. He drew her aside for a few moments, and a whispered conference wasexchanged. He then walked gravely up to Fanny "My young friend, " saidhe, "I see my presence is too much for you this evening. This youngwoman will attend you--will get you all you want. She can tell you, too, that I am not the terrible sort of person you seem to suppose. I shallsee you to-morrow. " So saying, he turned on his heel and walked out. 

Fanny felt something like liberty, something like joy, again. She rose, and looked so pleadingly, so earnestly, so intently into the woman'sface, that Harriet turned away her bold eyes abashed; and at this momentDykeman himself looked into the room. 

"You are to bring us in dinner here yourself, uncle; and then go to mylord in the drawing-room. "

Dykeman looked pleased, and vanished. Then Harriet came up and tookFanny's hand, and said, kindly, --

"Don't be frightened. I assure you, half the girls in London would giveI don't know what to be in your place. My lord never will force you todo anything you don't like--it's not his way; and he's the kindest andbest man, --and so rich; he does not know what to do with his money!"

To all this Fanny made but one answer, --she threw herself suddenly uponthe woman's breast, and sobbed out: "My grandfather is blind, he cannotdo without me--he will die--die. Have you nobody you love, too? Let mego--let me out! What can they want with me?--I never did harm to anyone. "

"And no one will harm you;--I swear it!" said Harriet, earnestly. "I seeyou don't know my lord. But here's the dinner; come, and take a bit ofsomething, and a glass of wine. "

Fanny could not touch anything except a glass of water, and that nearlychoked her. But at last, as she recovered her senses, the absence ofher tormentor--the presence of a woman--the solemn assurances of Harrietthat, if she did not like to stay there, after a day or two, she shouldgo back, tranquillised her in some measure. She did not heed the artfuland lengthened eulogiums that the she-tempter then proceeded to pourforth upon the virtues, and the love, and the generosity, and, aboveall, the money of my lord. She only kept repeating to herself, "I shallgo back in a day or two. " At length, Harriet, having eaten and drunk asmuch as she could by her single self, and growing wearied with effortsfrom which so little resulted, proposed to Fanny to retire to rest. She opened a door to the right of the fireplace, and lighted her up awinding staircase to a pretty and comfortable chamber, where she offeredto help her to undress. Fanny's complete innocence, and her utterignorance of the precise nature of the danger that awaited her, thoughshe fancied it must be very great and very awful, prevented her quitecomprehending all that Harriet meant to convey by her solemn assurancesthat she should not be disturbed. But she understood, at least, thatshe was not to see her hateful gaoler till the next morning; and whenHarriet, wishing her "good night, " showed her a bolt to her door, shewas less terrified at the thought of being alone in that strange place. She listened till Harriet's footsteps had died away, and then, with abeating heart, tried to open the door; it was locked from without. Shesighed heavily. The window?--alas! when she had removed the shutter, there was another one barred from without, which precluded all hopethere; she had no help for it but to bolt her door, stand forlorn andamazed at her own condition, and, at last, falling on her knees, topray, in her own simple fashion, which since her recent visits to theschoolmistress had become more intelligent and earnest, to Him from whomno bolts and no bars can exclude the voice of the human heart. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

 "In te omnis domus inclinata recumbit. "--VIRGIL. 

 [On thee the whole house rests confidingly. ]

Lord Lilburne, seated before a tray in the drawing-room, was finishinghis own solitary dinner, and Dykeman was standing close behind him, nervous and agitated. The confidence of many years between the masterand the servant--the peculiar mind of Lilburne, which excluded him fromall friendship with his own equals--had established between the twothe kind of intimacy so common with the noble and the valet of the oldFrench regime, and indeed, in much Lilburne more resembled the men ofthat day and land, than he did the nobler and statelier being whichbelongs to our own. But to the end of time, whatever is at once vicious, polished, and intellectual, will have a common likeness. 

"But, my lord, " said Dykeman, "just reflect. This girl is so well knownin the place; she will be sure to be missed; and if any violence isdone to her, it's a capital crime, my lord--a capital crime. I know theycan't hang a great lord like you, but all concerned in it may----"

Lord Lilburne interrupted the speaker by, "Give me some wine and holdyour tongue!" Then, when he had emptied his glass, he drew himselfnearer to the fire, warmed his hands, mused a moment, and turned roundto his confidant:--

"Dykeman, " said he, "though you're an ass and a coward, and you don'tdeserve that I should be so condescending, I will relieve your fearsat once. I know the law better than you can, for my whole life has beenspent in doing exactly as I please, without ever putting myself in thepower of LAW, which interferes with the pleasures of other men. You areright in saying violence would be a capital crime. Now the differencebetween vice and crime is this: Vice is what parsons write sermonsagainst, Crime is what we make laws against. I never committed a crimein all my life, --at an age between fifty and sixty--I am not going tobegin. Vices are safe things; I may have my vices like other men: butcrimes are dangerous things--illegal things--things to be carefullyavoided. Look you" (and here the speaker, fixing his puzzled listenerwith his eye, broke into a grin of sublime mockery), "let me suppose youto be the World--that cringing valet of valets, the WORLD! I should sayto you this, 'My dear World, you and I understand each other well, --weare made for each other, --I never come in your way, nor you in mine. IfI get drunk every day in my own room, that's vice, you can't touch me;if I take an extra glass for the first time in my life, and knockdown the watchman, that's a crime which, if I am rich, costs me onepound--perhaps five pounds; if I am poor, sends me to the treadmill. IfI break the hearts of five hundred old fathers, by buying with goldor flattery the embraces of five hundred young daughters, that'svice, --your servant, Mr. World! If one termagant wench scratches myface, makes a noise, and goes brazen-faced to the Old Bailey to swear toher shame, why that's crime, and my friend, Mr. World, pulls a hemp-ropeout of his pocket. ' Now, do you understand? Yes, I repeat, " he added, with a change of voice, "I never committed a crime in my life, --I havenever even been accused of one, --never had an action of crim. Con. --ofseduction against me. I know how to manage such matters better. I wasforced to carry off this girl, because I had no other means of courtingher. To court her is all I mean to do now. I am perfectly aware thatan action for violence, as you call it, would be the more disagreeable, because of the very weakness of intellect which the girl is said topossess, and of which report I don't believe a word. I shall mostcertainly avoid even the remotest appearance that could be so construed. It is for that reason that no one in the house shall attend the girlexcept yourself and your niece. Your niece I can depend on, I know; Ihave been kind to her; I have got her a good husband; I shall get herhusband a good place;--I shall be godfather to her first child. To besure, the other servants will know there's a lady in the house, but tothat they are accustomed; I don't set up for a Joseph. They need knowno more, unless you choose to blab it out. Well, then, supposing that atthe end of a few days, more or less, without any rudeness on my part, ayoung woman, after seeing a few jewels, and fine dresses, and a prettyhouse, and being made very comfortable, and being convinced that hergrandfather shall be taken care of without her slaving herself to death, chooses of her own accord to live with me, where's the crime, and whocan interfere with it?"

"Certainly, my lord, that alters the case, " said Dykeman, considerablyrelieved. "But still, " he added, anxiously, "if the inquiry is made, --ifbefore all this is settled, it is found out where she is?"

"Why then no harm will be done--no violence will be committed. Hergrandfather, --drivelling and a miser, you say--can be appeased by alittle money, and it will be nobody's business, and no case can be madeof it. Tush! man! I always look before I leap! People in this world arenot so charitable as you suppose. What more natural than that a poor andpretty girl--not as wise as Queen Elizabeth--should be tempted to pay avisit to a rich lover!

"All they can say of the lover is, that he is a very gay man or a verybad man, and that's saying nothing new of me. But don't think it willbe found out. Just get me that stool; this has been a very troublesomepiece of business--rather tried me. I am not so young as I was. Yes, Dykeman, something which that Frenchman Vaudemont, or Vautrien, orwhatever his name is, said to me once, has a certain degree of truth. Ifelt it in the last fit of the gout, when my pretty niece was smoothingmy pillows. A nurse, as we grow older, may be of use to one. I wish tomake this girl like me, or be grateful to me. I am meditating a longerand more serious attachment than usual, --a companion!"

"A companion, my lord, in that poor creature!--so ignorant--souneducated!"

"So much the better. This world palls upon me, " said Lilburne, almostgloomily. "I grow sick of the miserable quackeries--of the piteousconceits that men, women, and children call 'knowledge, ' I wish to catcha glimpse of nature before I die. This creature interests me, and thatis something in this life. Clear those things away, and leave me. "

"Ay!" muttered Lilburne, as he bent over the fire alone, "when I firstheard that that girl was the granddaughter of Simon Gawtrey, and, therefore, the child of the man whom I am to thank that I am a cripple, I felt as if love to her were a part of that hate which I owe to him; asegment in the circle of my vengeance. But now, poor child!

"I forget all this. I feel for her, not passion, but what I never feltbefore, affection. I feel that if I had such a child, I could understandwhat men mean when they talk of the tenderness of a father. I have notone impure thought for that girl--not one. But I would give thousandsif she could love me. Strange! strange! in all this I do not recognisemyself!"

Lord Lilburne retired to rest betimes that night; he slept sound; roserefreshed at an earlier hour than usual; and what he considered a fit ofvapours of the previous night was passed away. He looked with eagernessto an interview with Fanny. Proud of his intellect, pleased in any ofthose sinister exercises of it which the code and habits of his life solong permitted to him, he regarded the conquest of his fair adversarywith the interest of a scientific game. Harriet went to Fanny's room toprepare her to receive her host; and Lord Lilburne now resolved to makehis own visit the less unwelcome by reserving for his especial giftsome showy, if not valuable, trinkets, which for similar purposes neverfailed the depositories of the villa he had purchased for his pleasures. He, recollected that these gewgaws were placed in the bureau in thestudy; in which, as having a lock of foreign and intricate workmanship, he usually kept whatever might tempt cupidity in those frequent absenceswhen the house was left guarded but by two women servants. Finding thatFanny had not yet quitted her own chamber, while Harriet went up toattend and reason with her, he himself limped into the study below, unlocked the bureau, and was searching in the drawers, when he heard thevoice of Fanny above, raised a little as if in remonstrance or entreaty;and he paused to listen. He could not, however, distinguish what wassaid; and in the meanwhile, without attending much to what he was about, his bands were still employed in opening and shutting the drawers, passing through the pigeon-holes, and feeling for a topaz brooch, whichhe thought could not fail of pleasing the unsophisticated eyes of Fanny. One of the recesses was deeper than the rest; he fancied the broochwas there; he stretched his hand into the recess; and, as the room waspartially darkened by the lower shutters from without, which were stillunclosed to prevent any attempted escape of his captive, he had onlythe sense of touch to depend on; not finding the brooch, he stretched ontill he came to the extremity of the recess, and was suddenly sensibleof a sharp pain; the flesh seemed caught as in a trap; he drew backhis finger with sudden force and a half-suppressed exclamation, and heperceived the bottom or floor of the pigeon-hole recede, as if slidingback. His curiosity was aroused; he again felt warily and cautiously, and discovered a very slight inequality and roughness at the extremityof the recess. He was aware instantly that there was some secret spring;he pressed with some force on the spot, and he felt the board give way;he pushed it back towards him, and it slid suddenly with a whirringnoise, and left a cavity below exposed to his sight. He peered in, anddrew forth a paper; he opened it at first carelessly, for he was stilltrying to listen to Fanny. His eye ran rapidly over a few preliminarylines till it rested on what follows:

"Marriage. The year 18--

"No. 83, page 21. 

"Philip Beaufort, of this parish of A-----, and Catherine Morton, of theparish of St. Botolph, Aldgate, London, were married in this church bybanns, this 12th day of November, in the year one thousand eight hundredand ----' by me, "CALEB PRICE, Vicar. 

"This marriage was solemnised between us, "PHILIP BEAUFORT. "CATHERINE MORTON. 

"In the presence of "DAVID APREECE. "WILLIAM SMITH. 

"The above is a true copy taken from the registry of marriages, inA-----parish, this 19th day of March, 18--, by me, "MORGAN JONES, Curate of C-------. "

 [This is according to the form customary at the date at which the copy was made. There has since been an alteration. ]

Lord Lilburne again cast his eye over the lines prefixed to thisstartling document, which, being those written at Caleb's desire, by Mr. Jones to Philip Beaufort, we need not here transcribe to the reader. Atthat instant Harriet descended the stairs, and came into the room; shecrept up on tiptoe to Lilburne, and whispered, --

"She is coming down, I think; she does not know you are here. "

"Very well--go!" said Lord Lilburne. And scarce had Harriet left theroom, when a carriage drove furiously to the door, and Robert Beaufortrushed into the study. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

 "Gone, and none know it. 

 How now?--What news, what hopes and steps discovered!" BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: The Pilgrim. 

When Philip arrived at his lodgings in town it was very late, but hestill found Liancourt waiting the chance of his arrival. The Frenchmanwas full of his own schemes and projects. He was a man of high reputeand connections; negotiations for his recall to Paris had been enteredinto; he was divided between a Quixotic loyalty and a rational prudence;he brought his doubts to Vaudemont. Occupied as he was with thoughts ofso important and personal a nature, Philip could yet listen patientlyto his friend, and weigh with him the pros and cons. And after havingmutually agreed that loyalty and prudence would both be best consultedby waiting a little, to see if the nation, as the Carlists yet fondlytrusted, would soon, after its first fever, offer once more the throneand the purple to the descendant of St. Louis, Liancourt, as he lightedhis cigar to walk home, said, "A thousand thanks to you, my dear friend:and how have you enjoyed yourself in your visit? I am not surprised orjealous that Lilburne did not invite me, as I do not play at cards, andas I have said some sharp things to him!"

"I fancy I shall have the same disqualifications for anotherinvitation, " said Vaudemont, with a severe smile. "I may have much todisclose to you in a few days. At present my news is still unripe. Andhave you seen anything of Lilburne? He left us some days since. Is he inLondon?"

"Yes; I was riding with our friend Henri, who wished to try a newhorse off the stones, a little way into the country yesterday. We wentthrough------and H----. Pretty places, those. Do you know them?"

"Yes; I know H----. "

"And just at dusk, as we were spurring back to town, whom should I seewalking on the path of the high-road but Lord Lilburne himself! I couldhardly believe my eyes. I stopped, and, after asking him about you, I could not help expressing my surprise to see him on foot at such aplace. You know the man's sneer. 'A Frenchman so gallant as Monsieur deLiancourt, ' said he, 'need not be surprised at much greater miracles;the iron moves to the magnet: I have a little adventure here. Pardon meif I ask you to ride on. ' Of course I wished him good day; and a littlefarther up the road I saw a dark plain chariot, no coronet, no arms, nofootman only the man on the box, but the beauty of the horses assured meit must belong to Lilburne. Can you conceive such absurdity in a man ofthat age--and a very clever fellow too? Yet, how is it that one does notridicule it in Lilburne, as one would in another man between fifty andsixty?"

"Because one does not ridicule, --one loathes-him. "

"No; that's not it. The fact is that one can't fancy Lilburne old. Hismanner is young--his eye is young. I never saw any one with so muchvitality. 'The bad heart and the good digestion'--the twin secrets forwearing well, eh!"

"Where did you meet him--not near H----?"

"Yes; close by. Why? Have you any adventure there too? Nay, forgive me;it was but a jest. Good night!"

Vaudemont fell into an uneasy reverie: he could not divine exactlywhy he should be alarmed; but he was alarmed at Lilburne being in theneighbourhood of H----. It was the foot of the profane violating thesanctuary. An undefined thrill shot through him, as his mind coupledtogether the associations of Lilburne and Fanny; but there was no groundfor forebodings. Fanny did not stir out alone. An adventure, too--pooh!Lord Lilburne must be awaiting a willing and voluntary appointment, mostprobably from some one of the fair but decorous frailties of London. Lord Lilburne's more recent conquests were said to be among those of hisown rank; suburbs are useful for such assignations. Any other thoughtwas too horrible to be contemplated. He glanced to the clock; it wasthree in the morning. He would go to H---- early, even before he soughtout Mr. William Smith. With that resolution, and even his hardy frameworn out by the excitement of the day, he threw himself on his bed andfell asleep. 

He did not wake till near nine, and had just dressed, and hurried overhis abstemious breakfast, when the servant of the house came to tell himthat an old woman, apparently in great agitation, wished to see him. His head was still full of witnesses and lawsuits; and he was vaguelyexpecting some visitor connected with his primary objects, when Sarahbroke into the room. She cast a hurried, suspicious look round her, andthen throwing herself on her knees to him, "Oh!" she cried, "if you havetaken that poor young thing away, God forgive you. Let her come backagain. It shall be all hushed up. Don't ruin her! don't, that's a deargood gentleman!"

"Speak plainly, woman--what do you mean?" cried Philip, turning pale. 

A very few words sufficed for an explanation: Fanny's disappearance theprevious night; the alarm of Sarah at her non-return; the apathy of oldSimon, who did not comprehend what had happened, and quietly went tobed; the search Sarah had made during half the night; the intelligenceshe had picked up, that the policeman, going his rounds, had heard afemale shriek near the school; but that all he could perceive throughthe mist was a carriage driving rapidly past him; Sarah's suspicionsof Vaudemont confirmed in the morning, when, entering Fanny's room, sheperceived the poor girl's unfinished letter with his own, the clue tohis address that the letter gave her; all this, ere she well understoodwhat she herself was talking about, --Vaudemont's alarm seized, and thereflection of a moment construed: the carriage; Lilburne seen lurking inthe neighbourhood the previous day; the former attempt;--all flashed onhim with an intolerable glare. While Sarah was yet speaking, he rushedfrom the house, he flew to Lord Lilburne's in Park Lane; he composed hismanner, he inquired calmly. His lordship had slept from home; he was, they believed, at Fernside: Fernside! H---- was on the direct way tothat villa. Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed since he heard the storyere he was on the road, with such speed as the promise of a guinea amile could extract from the spurs of a young post-boy applied to theflanks of London post-horses. 

CHAPTER XV. 

 "Ex humili magna ad fastigia rerum Extollit. "--JUVENAL. 

 [Fortune raises men from low estate to the very summit of prosperity. ]

When Harriet had quitted Fanny, the waiting-woman, craftily wishing tolure her into Lilburne's presence, had told her that the room belowwas empty; and the captive's mind naturally and instantly seized on thethought of escape. After a brief breathing pause, she crept noiselesslydown the stairs, and gently opened the door; and at the very instant shedid so, Robert Beaufort entered from the other door; she drew back interror, when, what was her astonishment in hearing a name uttered thatspell-bound her--the last name she could have expected to hear; forLilburne, the instant he saw Beaufort, pale, haggard, agitated, rushinto the room, and bang the door after him, could only suppose thatsomething of extraordinary moment had occurred with regard to thedreaded guest, and cried:

"You come about Vaudemont! Something has happened about Vaudemont! aboutPhilip! What is it? Calm yourself. "

Fanny, as the name was thus abruptly uttered, actually thrust herface through the door; but she again drew back, and, all her sensespreternaturally quickened at that name, while she held the door almostclosed, listened with her whole soul in her ears. 

The faces of both the men were turned from her, and her partial entryhad not been perceived. 

"Yes, " said Robert Beaufort, leaning his weight, as if ready to sink tothe ground, upon Lilburne's shoulder, "Yes; Vaudemont, or Philip, forthey are one, --yes, it is about that man I have come to consult you. Arthur has arrived. "

"Well?"

"And Arthur has seen the wretch who visited us, and the rascal's mannerhas so imposed on him, so convinced him that Philip is the heir to allour property, that he has come over-ill, ill--I fear" (added Beaufort, in a hollow voice), "dying, to--to--"

"To guard against their machinations?"

"No, no, no--to say that if such be the case, neither honour norconscience will allow us to resist his rights. He is so obstinate inthis matter; his nerves so ill bear reasoning and contradiction, that Iknow not what to do--"

"Take breath-go on. "

"Well, it seems that this man found out Arthur almost as soon as my sonarrived at Paris--that he has persuaded Arthur that he has it in hispower to prove the marriage--that he pretended to be very impatientfor a decision--that Arthur, in order to gain time to see me, affectedirresolution--took him to Boulogne, for the rascal does not dare toreturn to England--left him there; and now comes back, my own son, asmy worst enemy, to conspire against me for my property! I could nothave kept my temper if I had stayed. But that's not all--that's not theworst: Vaudemont left me suddenly in the morning on the receipt of aletter. In taking leave of Camilla he let fall hints which fill me withfear. Well, I inquired his movements as I came along; he had stoppedat D----, had been closeted for above an hour with a man whose name thelandlord of the inn knew, for it was on his carpet-bag--the name wasBarlow. You remember the advertisements! Good Heavens! what is to bedone? I would not do anything unhandsome or dishonest. But there neverwas a marriage. I never will believe there was a marriage--never!"

"There was a marriage, Robert Beaufort, " said Lord Lilburne, almostenjoying the torture he was about to inflict; "and I hold here a paperthat Philip Vaudemont--for so we will yet call him--would give his righthand to clutch for a moment. I have but just found it in a secret cavityin that bureau. Robert, on this paper may depend the fate, the fortune, the prosperity, the greatness of Philip Vaudemont;--or his poverty, hisexile, his ruin. See!"

Robert Beaufort glanced over the paper held out to him--dropped iton the floor--and staggered to a seat. Lilburne coolly replaced thedocument in the bureau, and, limping to his brother-in-law, said with asmile, --

"But the paper is in my possession--I will not destroy it. No; I have noright to destroy it. Besides, it would be a crime; but if I give it toyou, you can do with it as you please. "

"O Lilburne, spare me--spare me. I meant to be an honest man. I--I--"And Robert Beaufort sobbed. Lilburne looked at him in scornful surprise. 

"Do not fear that I shall ever think worse of you; and who else willknow it? Do not fear me. No;--I, too, have reasons to hate and tofear this Philip Vaudemont; for Vaudemont shall be his name, and notBeaufort, in spite of fifty such scraps of paper! He has known a man--myworst foe--he has secrets of mine--of my past-perhaps of my present: butI laugh at his knowledge while he is a wandering adventurer;--I shouldtremble at that knowledge if he could thunder it out to the world asPhilip Beaufort of Beaufort Court! There, I am candid with you. Nowhear my plan. Prove to Arthur that his visitor is a convicted felon, bysending the officers of justice after him instantly--off with him againto the Settlements. Defy a single witness--entrap Vaudemont back toFrance and prove him (I think I will prove him such--I think so--witha little money and a little pains)--prove him the accomplice of WilliamGawtrey, a coiner and a murderer! Pshaw! take yon paper. Do with it asyou will--keep it-give it to Arthur--let Philip Vaudemont have it, andPhilip Vaudemont will be rich and great, the happiest man between earthand paradise! On the other hand, come and tell me that you have lostit, or that I never gave you such a paper, or that no such paper everexisted; and Philip Vaudemont may live a pauper, and die, perhaps, aslave at the galleys! Lose it, I say, --lose it, --and advise with me uponthe rest. "

Horror-struck, bewildered, the weak man gazed upon the calm face of theMaster-villain, as the scholar of the old fables might have gazed onthe fiend who put before him worldly prosperity here and the loss ofhis soul hereafter. He had never hitherto regarded Lilburne in his truelight. He was appalled by the black heart that lay bare before him. 

"I can't destroy it--I can't, " he faltered out; "and if I did, out oflove for Arthur, --don't talk of galleys, --of vengeance--I--I--"

"The arrears of the rents you have enjoyed will send you to gaol foryour life. No, no; don't destroy the paper. "

Beaufort rose with a desperate effort; he moved to the bureau. Fanny'sheart was on her lips;--of this long conference she had understood onlythe one broad point on which Lilburne had insisted with an emphasis thatcould have enlightened an infant; and he looked on Beaufort as an infantthen--On that paper rested Philip Vaudemont's fate--happiness if saved, ruin if destroyed; Philip--her Philip! And Philip himself had said toher once--when had she ever forgotten his words? and now how those wordsflashed across her--Philip himself had said to her once, "Upon a scrapof paper, if I could but find it, may depend my whole fortune, my wholehappiness, all that I care for in life. "--Robert Beaufort moved to thebureau--he seized the document--he looked over it again, hurriedly, andere Lilburne, who by no means wished to have it destroyed in his ownpresence, was aware of his intention--he hastened with tottering stepsto the hearth-averted his eyes, and cast it on the fire. At that instantsomething white--he scarce knew what, it seemed to him as a spirit, as aghost--darted by him, and snatched the paper, as yet uninjured, fromthe embers! There was a pause for the hundredth part of a moment:--agurgling sound of astonishment and horror from Beaufort--an exclamationfrom Lilburne--a laugh from Fanny, as, her eyes flashing light, with aproud dilation of stature, with the paper clasped tightly to her bosom, she turned her looks of triumph from one to the other. The two menwere both too amazed, at the instant, for rapid measures. But Lilburne, recovering himself first, hastened to her; she eluded his grasp--shemade towards the door to the passage; when Lilburne, seriously alarmed, seized her arm;--

"Foolish child!--give me that paper!"

"Never but with my life!" And Fanny's cry for help rang through thehouse. 

"Then--" the speech died on his lips, for at that instant a rapid stridewas heard without--a momentary scuffle--voices in altercation;--thedoor gave way as if a battering ram had forced it;--not so much thrownforward as actually hurled into the room, the body of Dykeman fellheavily, like a dead man's, at the very feet of Lord Lilburne--andPhilip Vaudemont stood in the doorway!

The grasp of Lilburne on Fanny's arm relaxed, and the girl, withone bound, sprung to Philip's breast. "Here, here!" she cried, "takeit--take it!" and she thrust the paper into his hand. "Don't let themhave it--read it--see it--never mind me!" But Philip, though his handunconsciously closed on the precious document, did mind Fanny; and inthat moment her cause was the only one in the world to him. 

"Foul villain!" he said, as he strode to Lilburne, while Fanny stillclung to his breast: "Speak!--speak!--is--she--is she?--man--man, speak!--you know what I would say!--She is the child of your owndaughter--the grandchild of that Mary whom you dishonoured--the childof the woman whom William Gawtrey saved from pollution! Before he died, Gawtrey commended her to my care!--O God of Heaven!--speak!--I am nottoo late!"

The manner, the words, the face of Philip left Lilburne terror-strickenwith conviction. But the man's crafty ability, debased as it was, triumphed even over remorse for the dread guilt meditated, --overgratitude for the dread guilt spared. He glanced at Beaufort--atDykeman, who now, slowly recovering, gazed at him with eyes thatseemed starting from their sockets; and lastly fixed his look on Philiphimself. There were three witnesses--presence of mind was his greatattribute. 

"And if, Monsieur de Vaudemont, I knew, or, at least, had the firmestpersuasion that Fanny was my grandchild, what then? Why else should shebe here?--Pooh, sir! I am an old man. "

Philip recoiled a step in wonder; his plain sense was baffled by thecalm lie. He looked down at Fanny, who, comprehending nothing of whatwas spoken, for all her faculties, even her very sense of sight andhearing, were absorbed in her impatient anxiety for him, cried out:

"No harm has come to Fanny--none: only frightened. Read!--Read!--Savethat paper!--You know what you once said about a mere scrap of paper!Come away! Come!"

He did now cast his eyes on the paper he held. That was an awful momentfor Robert Beaufort--even for Lilburne! To snatch the fatal documentfrom that gripe! They would as soon have snatched it from a tiger! Helifted his eyes--they rested on his mother's picture! Her lips smiled onhim! He turned to Beaufort in a state of emotion too exulting, too blestfor vulgar vengeance--for vulgar triumph--almost for words. 

"Look yonder, Robert Beaufort--look!" and he pointed to the picture. "Her name is spotless! I stand again beneath a roof that was myfather's, --the Heir of Beaufort! We shall meet before the justice of ourcountry. For you, Lord Lilburne, I will believe you: it is too horribleto doubt even your intentions. If wrong had chanced to her, I would haverent you where you stand, limb from limb. And thank her", --(for Lilburnerecovered at this language the daring of his youth, before calculation, indolence, and excess had dulled the edge of his nerves; and, unawed bythe height, and manhood, and strength of his menacer, stalked haughtilyup to him)--"and thank your relationship to her, " said Philip, sinkinghis voice into a whisper, "that I do not brand you as a pilferer and acheat! Hush, knave!--hush, pupil of George Gawtrey!--there are no duelsfor me but with men of honour!"

Lilburne now turned white, and the big word stuck in his throat. Inanother instant Fanny and her guardian had quitted the house. 

"Dykeman, " said Lord Lilburne after a long silence, "I shall ask youanother time how you came to admit that impertinent person. At present, go and order breakfast for Mr. Beaufort. "

As soon as Dykeman, more astounded, perhaps, by his lord's coolness thaneven by the preceding circumstances, had left the study, Lilburne cameup to Beaufort, --who seemed absolutely stricken as if by palsy, --andtouching him impatiently and rudely, said, --

"'Sdeath, man!--rouse yourself! There is not a moment to be lost! I havealready decided on what you are to do. This paper is not worth a rush, unless the curate who examined it will depose to that fact. He is acurate--a Welsh curate;--you are yet Mr. Beaufort, a rich and a greatman. The curate, properly managed, may depose to the contrary; and thenwe will indict them all for forgery and conspiracy. At the worst, youcan, no doubt, get the parson to forget all about it--to stay away. Hisaddress was on the certificate:

"--C-----. Go yourself into Wales without an instant's delay-- Then, having arranged with Mr. Jones, hurry back, cross to Boulogne, and buythis convict and his witnesses, buy them! That, now, is the only thing. Quick! quick!--quick! Zounds, man! if it were my affair, my estate, Iwould not care a pin for that fragment of paper; I should rather rejoiceat it. I see how it could be turned against them! Go!"

"No, no; I am not equal to it! Will you manage it? will you? Half myestate!--all! Take it: but save--"

"Tut!" interrupted Lord Lilburne, in great disdain. "I am as rich as Iwant to be. Money does not bribe me. I manage this! I! Lord Lilburne. I!Why, if found out, it is subornation of witnesses. It is exposure--it isdishonour--it is ruin. What then? You should take the risk--for you mustmeet ruin if you do not. I cannot. I have nothing to gain!"

"I dare not!-I dare not!" murmured Beaufort, quite spirit-broken. "Subornation, dishonour, exposure!--and I, so respectable--mycharacter!--and my son against me, too!--my son, in whom I lived again!No, no; let them take all! Let them take it! Ha! ha! let them take it!Good-day to you. "

"Where are you going?"

"I shall consult Mr. Blackwell, and I'll let you know. " And Beaufortwalked tremulously back to his carriage. "Go to his lawyer!" growledLilburne. "Yes, if his lawyer can help him to defraud men lawfully, he'll defraud them fast enough. That will be the respectable way ofdoing it! Um!--This may be an ugly business for me--the paper foundhere--if the girl can depose to what she heard, and she must have heardsomething. --No, I think the laws of real property will hardly allow herevidence; and if they do--Um!--My granddaughter--is it possible!--AndGawtrey rescued her mother, my child, from her own mother's vices! Ithought my liking to that girl different from any other I have everfelt: it was pure--it was!--it was pity--affection. And I must never seeher again--must forget the whole thing! And I sin growing old--and Iam childless--and alone!" He paused, almost with a groan: and thenthe expression of his face changing to rage, he cried out, "The manthreatened me, and I was a coward! What to do?--Nothing! The defensiveis my line. I shall play no more. --I attack no one. Who will accuse LordLilburne? Still, Robert is a fool. I must not leave him to himself. Ho!there! Dykeman!--the carriage! I shall go to London. "

Fortunate, no doubt, it was for Philip that Mr. Beaufort was notLord Lilburne. For all history teaches us--public and privatehistory--conquerors--statesmen--sharp hypocrites and bravedesigners--yes, they all teach us how mighty one man of great intellectand no scruple is against the justice of millions! The One Manmoves--the Mass is inert. Justice sits on a throne. Roguery neverrests, --Activity is the lever of Archimedes. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

 "Quam inulta injusta ac prava fiunt moribus. "--TULL. 

 [How many unjust and vicious actions are perpetrated under the name of morals. ]

 "Volat ambiguis Mobilis alis Hera. "--SENECA. 

 [The hour flies moving with doubtful wings. ]

Mr. Robert Beaufort sought Mr. Blackwell, and long, rambling, anddisjointed was his narrative. Mr. Blackwell, after some consideration, proposed to set about doing the very things that Lilburne had proposedat once to do. But the lawyer expressed himself legally and covertly, sothat it did not seem to the sober sense of Mr. Beaufort at all thesame plan. He was not the least alarmed at what Mr. Blackwell proposed, though so shocked at what Lilburne dictated. Blackwell would go the nextday into Wales--he would find out Mr. Jones--he would sound him! Nothingwas more common with people of the nicest honour, than just to get awitness out of the way! Done in election petitions, for instance, everyday. 

"True, " said Mr. Beaufort, much relieved. 

Then, after having done that, Mr. Blackwell would return to town, andcross over to Boulogne to see this very impudent person whom Arthur(young men were so apt to be taken in!) had actually believed. He hadno doubt he could settle it all. Robert Beaufort returned to BerkeleySquare actually in spirits. There he found Lilburne, who, on reflection, seeing that Blackwell was at all events more up to the business than hisbrother, assented to the propriety of the arrangement. 

Mr. Blackwell accordingly did set off the next day. That next day, perhaps, made all the difference. Within two hours from his gaining thedocument so important, Philip, without any subtler exertion of intellectthan the decision of a plain, bold sense, had already forestalled boththe peer and the lawyer. He had sent down Mr. Barlow's head clerk to hismaster in Wales with the document, and a short account of the mannerin which it had been discovered. And fortunate, indeed, was it that thecopy had been found; for all the inquiries of Mr. Barlow at A----had failed, and probably would have failed, without such a clue, infastening upon any one probable person to have officiated as CalebPrice's amanuensis. The sixteen hours' start Mr. Barlow gained overBlackwell enabled the former to see Mr. Jones--to show him his ownhandwriting--to get a written and witnessed attestation from which thecurate, however poor, and however tempted, could never well haveescaped (even had he been dishonest, which he was not), of his perfectrecollection of the fact of making an extract from the registry atCaleb's desire, though he owned he had quite forgotten the names heextracted till they were again placed before him. Barlow took care toarouse Mr. Jones's interest in the case--quitted Wales--hastened over toBoulogne--saw Captain Smith, and without bribes, without threats, butby plainly proving to that worthy person that he could not return toEngland nor see his brother without being immediately arrested; that hisbrother's evidence was already pledged on the side of truth; and that bythe acquisition of new testimony there could be no doubt that thesuit would be successful--he diverted the captain from all dispositiontowards perfidy, convinced him on which side his interest lay, and sawhim return to Paris, where very shortly afterwards he disappeared forever from this world, being forced into a duel, much against his will(with a Frenchman whom he had attempted to defraud), and shot throughthe lungs. Thus verifying a favourite maxim of Lord Lilburne's, viz. That it does not do, in the long run, for little men to play the GreatGame!

On the same day that Blackwell returned, frustrated in his half-and-halfattempts to corrupt Mr. Jones, and not having been able even to discoverMr. Smith, Mr. Robert Beaufort received a notice of an Action forEjectment to be brought by Philip Beaufort at the next Assizes. And, to add to his afflictions, Arthur, whom he had hitherto endeavoured toamuse by a sort of ambiguous shilly-shally correspondence, became soalarmingly worse, that his mother brought him up to town for advice. Lord Lilburne was, of course, sent for; and on learning all, his counselwas prompt. 

"I told you before that this man loves your daughter. See if you caneffect a compromise. The lawsuit will be ugly, and probably ruinous. Hehas a right to claim six years' arrears--that is above L100, 000. Makeyourself his father-in-law, and me his uncle-in-law; and, since we can'tkill the wasp, we may at least soften the venom of his sting. "

Beaufort, still perplexed, irresolute, sought his son; and, for thefirst time, spoke to him frankly--that is, frankly for Robert Beaufort!He owned that the copy of the register had been found by Lilburne in asecret drawer. He made the best of the story Lilburne himself furnishedhim with (adhering, of course, to the assertion uttered or insinuatedto Philip) in regard to Fanny's abduction and interposition; he saidnothing of his attempt to destroy the paper. Why should he? By admittingthe copy in court--if so advised--he could get rid of Fanny's evidencealtogether; even without such concession, her evidence might possiblybe objected to or eluded. He confessed that he feared the witness whocopied the register and the witness to the marriage were alive. And thenhe talked pathetically of his desire to do what was right, his dread ofslander and misinterpretation. He said nothing of Sidney, and his beliefthat Sidney and Charles Spencer were the same; because, if his daughterwere to be the instrument for effecting a compromise, it was clear thather engagement with Spencer must be cancelled and concealed. And luckilyArthur's illness and Camilla's timidity, joined now to her father'sinjunctions not to excite Arthur in his present state with anyadditional causes of anxiety, prevented the confidence that mightotherwise have ensued between the brother and sister. And Camilla, indeed, had no heart for such a conference. How, when she looked onArthur's glassy eye, and listened to his hectic cough, could she talkto him of love and marriage? As to the automaton, Mrs. Beaufort, Robertmade sure of her discretion. 

Arthur listened attentively to his father's communication; and theresult of that interview was the following letter from Arthur to hiscousin:

"I write to you without fear of misconstruction; for I write to youunknown to all my family, and I am the only one of them who can have nopersonal interest in the struggle about to take place between my fatherand yourself. Before the law can decide between you, I shall be in mygrave. I write this from the Bed of Death. Philip, I write this--I, whostood beside a deathbed more sacred to you than mine--I, who receivedyour mother's last sigh. And with that sigh there was a smile thatlasted when the sigh was gone: for I promised to befriend her children. Heaven knows how anxiously I sought to fulfil that solemn vow! Feebleand sick myself, I followed you and your brother with no aim, no prayer, but this, --to embrace you and say, 'Accept a new brother in me. ' I spareyou the humiliation, for it is yours, not mine, of recalling what passedbetween us when at last we met. Yet, I still sought to save, at least, Sidney, --more especially confided to my care by his dying mother. Hemysteriously eluded our search; but we had reason, by a letter receivedfrom some unknown hand, to believe him saved and provided for. Again Imet you at Paris. I saw you were poor. Judging from your associate, Imight with justice think you depraved. Mindful of your declarationnever to accept bounty from a Beaufort, and remembering with naturalresentment the outrage I had before received from you, I judged it vainto seek and remonstrate with you, but I did not judge it vain to aid. Isent you, anonymously, what at least would suffice, if absolute povertyhad subjected you to evil courses, to rescue you from them it yourheart were so disposed. Perhaps that sum, trifling as it was, may havesmoothed your path and assisted your career. And why tell you all thisnow? To dissuade from asserting rights you conceive to be just?--Heavenforbid! If justice is with you, so also is the duty due to your mother'sname. But simply for this: that in asserting such rights, you contentyourself with justice, not revenge--that in righting yourself, you donot wrong others. If the law should decide for you, the arrears youcould demand would leave my father and sister beggars. This may belaw--it would not be justice; for my father solemnly believed himself, and had every apparent probability in his favour, the true heir ofthe wealth that devolved upon him. This is not all. There may becircumstances connected with the discovery of a certain document that, if authentic, and I do not presume to question it, may decide thecontest so far as it rests on truth; circumstances which might seemto bear hard upon my father's good name and faith. I do not knowsufficiently of law to say how far these could be publicly urged, or, ifurged, exaggerated and tortured by an advocate's calumnious ingenuity. But again, I say justice, and not revenge! And with this I conclude, inclosing to you these lines, written in your own hand, and leaving youthe arbiter of their value. 

 "ARTHUR BEAUFORT. "

The lines inclosed were these, a second time placed before the reader

 "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. "

This letter was sent to the only address of Monsieur de Vaudemont whichthe Beauforts knew, viz. , his apartments in town, and he did not receiveit the day it was sent. 

Meanwhile Arthur Beaufort's malady continued to gain ground rapidly. His father, absorbed in his own more selfish fears (though, at the firstsight of Arthur, overcome by the alteration of his appearance), hadceased to consider his illness fatal. In fact, his affection for Arthurwas rather one of pride than love: long absence had weakened the tiesof early custom. He prized him as an heir rather than treasured him asa son. It almost seemed that as the Heritage was in danger, so the Heirbecame less dear: this was only because he was less thought of. PoorMrs. Beaufort, yet but partially acquainted with the terrors of herhusband, still clung to hope for Arthur. Her affection for him broughtout from the depths of her cold and insignificant character qualitiesthat had never before been apparent. She watched--she nursed--she tendedhim. The fine lady was gone; nothing but the mother was left behind. 

With a delicate constitution, and with an easy temper, which yielded tothe influence of companions inferior to himself, except in bodily vigourand more sturdy will, Arthur Beaufort had been ruined by prosperity. His talents and acquirements, if not first-rate, at least far abovemediocrity, had only served to refine his tastes, not to strengthen hismind. His amiable impulses, his charming disposition and sweet temper, had only served to make him the dupe of the parasites that feasted onthe lavish heir. His heart, frittered away in the usual round of lightintrigues and hollow pleasures, had become too sated and exhausted forthe redeeming blessings of a deep and a noble love. He had so lived forPleasure that he had never known Happiness. His frame broke by excessesin which his better nature never took delight, he came home--to hear ofruin and to die!

It was evening in the sick-room. Arthur had risen from the bed to which, for some days, he had voluntarily taken, and was stretched on the sofabefore the fire. Camilla was leaning over him, keeping in the shade, that he might not see the tears which she could not suppress. His motherhad been endeavouring to amuse him, as she would have amused herself, byreading aloud one of the light novels of the hour; novels that paint thelife of the higher classes as one gorgeous holyday. 

"My dear mother, " said the patient querulously, "I have no interestin these false descriptions of the life I have led. I know that life'sworth. Ah! had I been trained to some employment, some profession! hadI--well--it is weak to repine. Mother, tell me, you have seen Mons. DeVaudemont: is he strong and healthy?"

"Yes; too much so. He has not your elegance, dear Arthur. "

"And do you admire him, Camilla? Has no other caught your heart or yourfancy?"

"My dear Arthur, " interrupted Mrs. Beaufort, "you forget that Camillais scarcely out; and of course a young girl's affections, if she's wellbrought up, are regulated by the experience of her parents. It is timeto take the medicine: it certainly agrees with you; you have more colourto-day, my dear, dear son. "

While Mrs. Beaufort was pouring out the medicine, the door gentlyopened, and Mr. Robert Beaufort appeared; behind him there rose a tallerand a statelier form, but one which seemed more bent, more humbled, more agitated. Beaufort advanced. Camilla looked up and turned pale. Thevisitor escaped from Mr. Beaufort's grasp on his arm; he came forward, trembling, he fell on his knees beside Arthur, and seizing his hand, bent over, it in silence. But silence so stormy! silence more impressivethan all words his breast heaved, his whole frame shook. Arthur guessedat once whom he saw, and bent down gently as if to raise his visitor. 

"Oh! Arthur! Arthur!" then cried Philip; "forgive me! My mother'scomforter--my cousin--my brother! Oh! brother, forgive me!"

And as he half rose, Arthur stretched out his arms, and Philip claspedhim to his breast. 

It is in vain to describe the different feelings that agitated those whobeheld; the selfish congratulations of Robert, mingled with a better andpurer feeling; the stupor of the mother; the emotions that she herselfcould not unravel, which rooted Camilla to the spot. 

"You own me, then, --you own me!" cried Philip. "You accept thebrotherhood that my mad passions once rejected! And you, too--you, Camilla--you who once knelt by my side, under this very roof--do youremember me now? Oh, Arthur! that letter--that letter!--yes, indeed, that aid which I ascribed to any one--rather than to you--made the dateof a fairer fortune. I may have owed to that aid the very fate that haspreserved me till now; the very name which I have not discredited. No, no; do not think you can ask me a favour; you can but claim your due. Brother! my dear brother!"

CHAPTER XVII. 

 "Warwick. --Exceeding well! his cares are now all over. " --Henry IV. 

The excitement of this interview soon overpowering Arthur, Philip, in quitting the room with Mr. Beaufort, asked a conference with thatgentleman; and they went into the very parlour from which the rich manhad once threatened to expel the haggard suppliant. Philip glanced roundthe room, and the whole scene came again before him. After a pause, hethus began, --

"Mr. Beaufort, let the Past be forgotten. We may have need of mutualforgiveness, and I, who have so wronged your noble son, am willingto suppose that I misjudged you. I cannot, it is true, forego thislawsuit. "

Mr. Beaufort's face fell. 

"I have no right to do so. I am the trustee of my father's honour and mymother's name: I must vindicate both: I cannot forego this lawsuit. Butwhen I once bowed myself to enter your house--then only with a hope, where now I have the certainty of obtaining my heritage--it was with theresolve to bury in oblivion every sentiment that would transgress themost temperate justice. Now, I will do more. If the law decide againstme, we are as we were; if with me--listen: I will leave you the landsof Beaufort, for your life and your son's. I ask but for me and for minesuch a deduction from your wealth as will enable me, should my brotherbe yet living, to provide for him; and (if you approve the choice, whichout of all earth I would desire to make) to give whatever belongs tomore refined or graceful existence than I myself care for, --to her whomI would call my wife. Robert Beaufort, in this room I once asked youto restore to me the only being I then loved: I am now again yoursuppliant; and this time you have it in your power to grant my prayer. Let Arthur be, in truth, my brother: give me, if I prove myself, as Ifeel assured, entitled to hold the name my father bore, give me yourdaughter as my wife; give me Camilla, and I will not envy you the landsI am willing for myself to resign; and if they pass to any children, those children will be your daughter's!"

The first impulse of Mr. Beaufort was to grasp the hand held out tohim; to pour forth an incoherent torrent of praise and protestation, of assurances that he could not hear of such generosity, that what wasright was right, that he should be proud of such a son-in-law, and muchmore in the same key. And in the midst of this, it suddenly occurred toMr. Beaufort, that if Philip's case were really as good as he said itwas, he could not talk so coolly of resigning the property it wouldsecure him for the term of a life (Mr. Beaufort thought of his own) souncommonly good, to say nothing of Arthur's. At this notion, he thoughtit best not to commit himself too far; drew in as artfully as he could, until he could consult Lord Lilburne and his lawyer; and recollectingalso that he had a great deal to manage with respect to Camilla and herprior attachment, he began to talk of his distress for Arthur, of thenecessity of waiting a little before Camilla was spoken to, while soagitated about her brother, of the exceedingly strong case which hislawyer advised him he possessed--not but what he would rather rest thematter on justice than law--and that if the law should be with him, he would not the less (provided he did not force his daughter'sinclinations, of which, indeed, he had no fear) be most happy to bestowher hand on his brother's nephew, with such a portion as would be mosthandsome to all parties. 

It often happens to us in this world, that when we come with our heartin our hands to some person or other, --when we pour out some generousburst of feeling so enthusiastic and self-sacrificing, that a bystanderwould call us fool and Quixote;--it often, I say, happens to us, to findour warm self suddenly thrown back upon our cold self; to discover thatwe are utterly uncomprehended, and that the swine who would have munchedup the acorn does not know what to make of the pearl. That sudden icewhich then freezes over us, that supreme disgust and despair almostof the whole world, which for the moment we confound with the oneworldling--they who have felt, may reasonably ascribe to Philip. Helistened to Mr. Beaufort in utter and contemptuous silence, and thenreplied only, --

"Sir, at all events this is a question for law to decide. If it decideas you think, it is for you to act; if as I think, it is for me. Tillthen I will speak to you no more of your daughter, or my intentions. Meanwhile, all I ask is the liberty to visit your son. I would not bebanished from his sick-room!"

"My dear nephew!" cried Mr. Beaufort, again alarmed, "consider thishouse as your home. "

Philip bowed and retreated to the door, followed obsequiously by hisuncle. 

It chanced that both Lord Lilburne and Mr. Blackwell were of the samemind as to the course advisable for Mr. Beaufort now to pursue. LordLilburne was not only anxious to exchange a hostile litigation foran amicable lawsuit, but he was really eager to put the seal ofrelationship upon any secret with regard to himself that a man who mightinherit L20, 000. A year--a dead shot, and a bold tongue--might thinkfit to disclose. This made him more earnest than he otherwise might havebeen in advice as to other people's affairs. He spoke to Beaufort as aman of the world--to Blackwell as a lawyer. 

"Pin the man down to his generosity, " said Lilburne, "before he getsthe property. Possession makes a great change in a man's value of money. After all, you can't enjoy the property when you're dead: he gives itnext to Arthur, who is not married; and if anything happen to Arthur, poor fellow, why, in devolving on your daughter's husband and children, it goes in the right line. Pin him down at once: get credit with theworld for the most noble and disinterested conduct, by letting yourcounsel state that the instant you discovered the lost document youwished to throw no obstacle in the way of proving the marriage, and thatthe only thing to consider is, if the marriage be proved; if so, youwill be the first to rejoice, &c. &c. You know all that sort of humbugas well as any man!"

Mr. Blackwell suggested the same advice, though in differentwords--after taking the opinions of three eminent members of the bar;those opinions, indeed, were not all alike--one was adverse to Mr. Robert Beaufort's chance of success, one was doubtful of it, thethird maintained that he had nothing to fear from the action--except, possibly, the ill-natured construction of the world. Mr. Robert Beaufortdisliked the idea of the world's ill-nature, almost as much as hedid that of losing his property. And when even this last and moreencouraging authority, learning privately from Mr. Blackwell thatArthur's illness was of a nature to terminate fatally, observed, "that acompromise with a claimant, who was at all events Mr. Beaufort's nephew, by which Mr. Beaufort could secure the enjoyment of the estates tohimself for life, and to his son for life also, should not (whateverhis probabilities of legal success) be hastily rejected--unless he hada peculiar affection for a very distant relation--who, failing Mr. Beaufort's male issue and Philip's claim, would be heir-at-law, butwhose rights would cease if Arthur liked to cut off the entail. "

Mr. Beaufort at once decided. He had a personal dislike to that distantheir-at-law; he had a strong desire to retain the esteem of the world;he had an innate conviction of the justice of Philip's claim; he had aremorseful recollection of his brother's generous kindness to himself;he preferred to have for his heir, in case of Arthur's decease, a nephewwho would marry his daughter, than a remote kinsman. And should, afterall, the lawsuit fail to prove Philip's right, he was not sorry to havethe estate in his own power by Arthur's act in cutting off the entail. Brief; all these reasons decided him. He saw Philip--he spoke toArthur--and all the preliminaries, as suggested above, were arrangedbetween the parties. The entail was cut off, and Arthur secretlyprevailed upon his father, to whom, for the present, the fee-simple thusbelonged, to make a will, by which he bequeathed the estates to Philip, without reference to the question of his legitimacy. Mr. Beaufort felthis conscience greatly eased after this action--which, too, he couldalways retract if he pleased; and henceforth the lawsuit became but amatter of form, so far as the property it involved was concerned. 

While these negotiations went on, Arthur continued gradually to decline. Philip was with him always. The sufferer took a strange liking to thislong-dreaded relation, this man of iron frame and thews. In Philipthere was so much of life, that Arthur almost felt as if in his presenceitself there was an antagonism to death. And Camilla saw thus hercousin, day by day, hour by hour, in that sick chamber, lending himself, with the gentle tenderness of a woman, to soften the pang, to arouse theweariness, to cheer the dejection. Philip never spoke to her of love:in such a scene that had been impossible. She overcame in their mutualcares the embarrassment she had before felt in his presence; whateverher other feelings, she could not, at least, but be grateful to one sotender to her brother. Three letters of Charles Spencer's had been, inthe afflictions of the house, only answered by a brief line. She nowtook the occasion of a momentary and delusive amelioration in Arthur'sdisease to write to him more at length. She was carrying, as usual, theletter to her mother, when Mr. Beaufort met her, and took the letterfrom her hand. He looked embarrassed for a moment, and bade her followhim into his study. It was then that Camilla learned, for the firsttime, distinctly, the claims and rights of her cousin; then she learnedalso at what price those rights were to be enforced with the leastpossible injury to her father. Mr. Beaufort naturally put the casebefore her in the strongest point of the dilemma. He was to beruined--utterly ruined; a pauper, a beggar, if Camilla did not savehim. The master of his fate demanded his daughter's hand. Habituallysubservient to even a whim of her parents, this intelligence, theentreaty, the command with which it was accompanied, overwhelmed her. She answered but by tears; and Mr. Beaufort, assured of her submission, left her, to consider of the tone of the letter he himself should writeto Mr. Spencer. He had sat down to this very task when he was summonedto Arthur's room. His son was suddenly taken worse: spasms thatthreatened immediate danger convulsed and exhausted him, and when thesewere allayed, he continued for three days so feeble that Mr. Beaufort, his eyes now thoroughly opened to the loss that awaited him, had nothoughts even for worldly interests. 

On the night of the third day, Philip, Robert Beaufort, his wife, hisdaughter, were grouped round the death-bed of Arthur. The sufferer hadjust wakened from sleep, and he motioned to Philip to raise him. Mr. Beaufort started, as by the dim light he saw his son in the arms ofCatherine's! and another Chamber of Death seemed, shadow-like, toreplace the one before him. Words, long since uttered, knelled in hisear: "There shall be a death-bed yet beside which you shall see thespectre of her, now so calm, rising for retribution from the grave!" Hisblood froze, his hair stood erect; he cast a hurried, shrinking glanceround the twilight of the darkened room: and with a feeble cry coveredhis white face with his trembling hands! But on Arthur's lips there wasa serene smile; he turned his eyes from Philip to Camilla, and murmured, "She will repay you!" A pause, and the mother's shriek rang through theroom! Robert Beaufort raised his face from his hands. His son was dead!

CHAPTER XVIII. 

 "Jul. And what reward do you propose?

 It must be my love. "--The Double Marriage. 

While these events, dark, hurried, and stormy, had befallen the familyof his betrothed, Sidney lead continued his calm life by the banks ofthe lovely lake. After a few weeks, his confidence in Camilla's fidelityoverbore all his apprehensions and forebodings. Her letters, thoughconstrained by the inspection to which they were submitted, gave himinexpressible consolation and delight. He began, however, early to fancythat there was a change in their tone. The letters seemed to shun theone subject to which all others were as nought; they turned rather uponthe guests assembled at Beaufort Court; and why I know not, --for therewas nothing in them to authorise jealousy--the brief words devoted toMonsieur de Vaudemont filled him with uneasy and terrible suspicion. He gave vent to these feelings, as fully as he dared do, under theknowledge that his letter would be seen; and Camilla never again evenmentioned the name of Vaudemont. Then there was a long pause; then herbrother's arrival and illness were announced; then, at intervals, but afew hurried lines; then a complete, long, dreadful silence, and lastly, with a deep black border and a solemn black seal, came the followingletter from Mr. Beaufort:

"MY DEAR SIR, --I have the unutterable grief to announce to you and yourworthy uncle the irreparable loss I have sustained in the death of myonly son. It is a month to day since he departed this life. He died, sir, as a Christian should die--humbly, penitently--exaggerating the fewfaults of his short life, but--(and here the writer's hypocrisy, though so natural to him--was it, that he knew not that he washypocritical?--fairly gave way before the real and human anguish, forwhich there is no dictionary!) but I cannot pursue this theme!

"Slowly now awakening to the duties yet left me to discharge, I cannotbut be sensible of the material difference in the prospects of myremaining child. Miss Beaufort is now the heiress to an ancient name anda large fortune. She subscribes with me to the necessity of consultingthose new considerations which so melancholy an event forces upon hermind. The little fancy--or liking--(the acquaintance was too short formore) that might naturally spring up between two amiable young personsthrown together in the country, must be banished from our thoughts. As afriend, I shall be always happy to hear of your welfare; and should youever think of a profession in which I can serve you, you may command myutmost interest and exertions. I know, my young friend, what you willfeel at first, and how disposed you will be to call me mercenary andselfish. Heaven knows if that be really my character! But at your age, impressions are easily effaced; and any experienced friend of the worldwill assure you that, in the altered circumstances of the case, I haveno option. All intercourse and correspondence, of course, cease withthis letter, --until, at least, we may all meet, with no sentiments butthose of friendship and esteem. I desire my compliments to your worthyuncle, in which Mrs. And Miss Beaufort join; and I am sure you willbe happy to hear that my wife and daughter, though still in greataffliction, have suffered less in health than I could have ventured toanticipate. 

"Believe me, dear Sir, "Yours sincerely, "ROBERT BEAUFORT. 

"To C. SPENCER, Esq. , Jun. "

When Sidney received this letter, he was with Mr. Spencer, and thelatter read it over the young man's shoulder, on which he leantaffectionately. When they came to the concluding words, Sidney turnedround with a vacant look and a hollow smile. "You see, sir, " he said, "you see---"

"My boy--my son--you bear this as you ought. Contempt will soonefface--"

Sidney started to his feet, and his whole countenance was changed. 

"Contempt--yes, for him! But for her--she knows it not--she is no partyto this--I cannot believe it--I will not! I--I----" and he rushed outof the room. He was absent till nightfall, and when he returned, heendeavoured to appear calm--but it was in vain. 

The next day brought him a letter from Camilla, written unknown toher parents, --short, it is true (confirming the sentence of separationcontained in her father's), and imploring him not to reply to it, --butstill so full of gentle and of sorrowful feeling, so evidently wordedin the wish to soften the anguish she inflicted, that it did more thansoothe--it even administered hope. 

Now when Mr. Robert Beaufort had recovered the ordinary tone of his mindsufficiently to indite the letter Sidney had just read, he had becomefully sensible of the necessity of concluding the marriage betweenPhilip and Camilla before the publicity of the lawsuit. The action forthe ejectment could not take place before the ensuing March or April. Hewould waive the ordinary etiquette of time and mourning to arrange allbefore. Indeed, he lived in hourly fear lest Philip should discoverthat he had a rival in his brother, and break off the marriage, withits contingent advantages. The first announcement of such a suit in thenewspapers might reach the Spencers; and if the young man were, as hedoubted not, Sidney Beaufort, would necessarily bring him forward, andensure the dreaded explanation. Thus apprehensive and ever scheming, Robert Beaufort spoke to Philip so much, and with such apparent feeling, of his wish to gratify, at the earliest possible period, the last wishof his son, in the union now arranged--he spoke, with such seemingconsideration and good sense, of the avoidance of all scandal andmisinterpretation in the suit itself, which suit a previous marriagebetween the claimant and his daughter would show at once to be of soamicable a nature, --that Philip, ardently in love as he was, could notbut assent to any hastening of his expected happiness compatible withdecorum. As to any previous publicity by way of newspaper comment, heagreed with Mr. Beaufort in deprecating it. But then came the question, What name was he to bear in the interval?

"As to that, " said Philip, somewhat proudly, "when, after my mother'ssuit in her own behalf, I persuaded her not to bear the name ofBeaufort, though her due--and for my own part, I prized her own modestname, which under such dark appearances was in reality spotless--as muchas the loftier one which you bear and my father bore;--so I shall notresume the name the law denies me till the law restores it to me. Lawalone can efface the wrong which law has done me. "

Mr. Beaufort was pleased with this reasoning (erroneous though it was), and he now hoped that all would be safely arranged. 

That a girl so situated as Camilla, and of a character not energeticor profound, but submissive, dutiful, and timid, should yield to thearguments of her father, the desire of her dying brother--that sheshould not dare to refuse to become the instrument of peace to a dividedfamily, the saving sacrifice to her father's endangered fortunes--that, in fine, when, nearly a month after Arthur's death, her father, leadingher into the room, where Philip waited her footstep with a beatingheart, placed her hand in his--and Philip falling on his knees said, "May I hope to retain this hand for life?"--she should falter out suchwords as he might construe into not reluctant acquiescence; that allthis should happen is so natural that the reader is already preparedfor it. But still she thought with bitter and remorseful feelings of himthus deliberately and faithlessly renounced. She felt how deeply he hadloved her--she knew how fearful would be his grief. She looked sad andthoughtful; but her brother's death was sufficient in Philip's eyes toaccount for that. The praises and gratitude of her father, to whom shesuddenly seemed to become an object of even greater pride and affectionthan ever Arthur had been--the comfort of a generous heart, that takespleasure in the very sacrifice it makes--the acquittal of her conscienceas to the motives of her conduct--began, however, to produce theireffect. Nor, as she had lately seen more of Philip, could she beinsensible of his attachment--of his many noble qualities--of the pridewhich most women might have felt in his addresses, when his rank wasonce made clear; and as she had ever been of a character more regulatedby duty than passion, so one who could have seen what was passing inher mind would have had little fear for Philip's future happiness in herkeeping--little fear but that, when once married to him, her affectionswould have gone along with her duties; and that if the first lovewere yet recalled, it would be with a sigh due rather to some romanticrecollection than some continued regret. Few of either sex are everunited to their first love; yet married people jog on, and call eachother "my dear" and "my darling" all the same. It might be, it is true, that Philip would be scarcely loved with the intenseness with which heloved; but if Camilla's feelings were capable of corresponding to theardent and impassioned ones of that strong and vehement nature--suchfeelings were not yet developed in her. The heart of the woman mightstill be half concealed in the vale of the virgin innocence. Philiphimself was satisfied--he believed that he was beloved: for it is theproperty of love, in a large and noble heart, to reflect itself, and tosee its own image in the eyes on which it looks. As the Poet gives idealbeauty and excellence to some ordinary child of Eve, worshipping lessthe being that is than the being he imagines and conceives--so Love, which makes us all poets for a while, throws its own divine light overa heart perhaps really cold; and becomes dazzled into the joy of a falsebelief by the very lustre with which it surrounds its object. 

The more, however, Camilla saw of Philip, the more (graduallyovercoming her former mysterious and superstitious awe of him) she grewfamiliarised to his peculiar cast of character and thought, so the moreshe began to distrust her father's assertion, that he had insisted onher hand as a price--a bargain--an equivalent for the sacrifice of adire revenge. And with this thought came another. Was she worthy of thisman?--was she not deceiving him? Ought she not to say, at least, thatshe had known a previous attachment, however determined she might beto subdue it? Often the desire for this just and honourable confessiontrembled on her lips, and as often was it checked by some chancecircumstance or some maiden fear. Despite their connection, there wasnot yet between them that delicious intimacy which ought to accompanythe affiance of two hearts and souls. The gloom of the house; therestraint on the very language of love imposed by a death so recentand so deplored, accounted in much for this reserve. And for therest, Robert Beaufort prudently left them very few and very briefopportunities to be alone. 

In the meantime, Philip (now persuaded that the Beauforts were ignorantof his brother's fate) had set Mr. Barlow's activity in searchof Sidney; and his painful anxiety to discover one so dear and somysteriously lost was the only cause of uneasiness apparent in thebrightening Future. While these researches, hitherto fruitless, werebeing made, it so happened, as London began now to refill, and gossipbegan now to revive, that a report got abroad, no one knew how (probablyfrom the servants) that Monsieur de Vaudemont, a distinguished Frenchofficer, was shortly to lead the daughter and sole heiress of RobertBeaufort, Esq. , M. P. , to the hymeneal altar; and that report veryquickly found its way into the London papers: from the London papersit spread to the provincial--it reached the eyes of Sidney in his nowgloomy and despairing solitude. The day that he read it he disappeared. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

 "Jul. .. . Good lady, love him! You have a noble and an honest gentleman. I ever found him so. Love him no less than I have done, and serve him, And Heaven shall bless you--you shall bless my ashes. " BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: The Double Marriage. 

We have been too long absent from Fanny; it is time to return to her. The delight she experienced when Philip made her understand all thebenefits, the blessings, that her courage, nay, her intellect, hadbestowed upon him, the blushing ecstasy with which she heard (as theyreturned to H----, the eventful morning of her deliverance, side byside, her hand clasped in his, and often pressed to his grateful lips)his praises, his thanks, his fear for her safety, his joy at regainingher--all this amounted to a bliss, which, till then, she could not haveconceived that life was capable of bestowing. And when he left her atH----, to hurry to his lawyer's with the recovered document, it was butfor an hour. He returned, and did not quit her for several days. And inthat time he became sensible of her astonishing, and, to him, it seemedmiraculous, improvement in all that renders Mind the equal to Mind;miraculous, for he guessed not the Influence that makes miracles itscommonplace. And now he listened attentively to her when she conversed;he read with her (though reading was never much in his vocation), hisunfastidious ear was charmed with her voice, when it sang those simplesongs; and his manner (impressed alike by gratitude for the signalservice rendered to him, and by the discovery that Fanny was no longera child, whether in mind or years), though not less gentle than before, was less familiar, less superior, more respectful, and more earnest. It was a change which raised her in her own self-esteem. Ah, those wererosy days for Fanny!

A less sagacious judge of character than Lilburne would have formeddoubts perhaps of the nature of Philip's interest in Fanny. But hecomprehended at once the fraternal interest which a man like Philipmight well take in a creature like Fanny, if commended to his care by aprotector whose doom was so awful as that which had ingulfed the lifeof William Gawtrey. Lilburne had some thoughts at first of claimingher, but as he had no power to compel her residence with him, he did notwish, on consideration, to come again in contact with Philip upon groundso full of humbling recollections as that still overshadowed by theimages of Gawtrey and Mary. He contented himself with writing an artfulletter to Simon, stating that from Fanny's residence with Mr. Gawtrey, and from her likeness to her mother, whom he had only seen as a child, he had conjectured the relationship she bore to himself; and havingobtained other evidence of that fact (he did not say what or where), hehad not scrupled to remove her to his roof, meaning to explain all toMr. Simon Gawtrey the next day. This letter was accompanied by one froma lawyer, informing Simon Gawtrey that Lord Lilburne would pay L200. Ayear, in quarterly payments, to his order; and that he was requested toadd, that when the young lady he had so benevolently reared came of age, or married, an adequate provision would be made for her. Simon's mindblazed up at this last intelligence, when read to him, though he neithercomprehended nor sought to know why Lord Lilburne should be so generous, or what that noble person's letter to himself was intended to convey. For two days, he seemed restored to vigorous sense; but when he hadonce clutched the first payment made in advance, the touch of the moneyseemed to numb him back to his lethargy: the excitement of desire diedin the dull sense of possession. 

And just at that time Fanny's happiness came to a close. Philip receivedArthur Beaufort's letter; and now ensued long and frequent absences; andon his return, for about an hour or so at a time, he spoke of sorrow anddeath; and the books were closed and the songs silenced. All fear forFanny's safety was, of course, over; all necessity for her work; theirlittle establishment was increased. She never stirred out without Sarah;yet she would rather that there had been some danger on her account forhim to guard against, or some trial that his smile might soothe. His prolonged absences began to prey upon her--the books ceased tointerest--no study filled up the dreary gap--her step grew listless-hercheek pale--she was sensible at last that his presence had becomenecessary to her very life. One day, he came to the house earlier thanusual, and with a much happier and serener expression of countenancethan he had worn of late. 

Simon was dozing in his chair, with his old dog, now scarce vigorousenough to bark, curled up at his feet. Neither man nor dog was more asa witness to what was spoken than the leathern chair, or the hearth-rug, on which they severally reposed. 

There was something which, in actual life, greatly contributed to theinterest of Fanny's strange lot, but which, in narration, I feelI cannot make sufficiently clear to the reader. And this was herconnection and residence with that old man. Her character forming, ashis was completely gone; here, the blank becoming filled--there, thepage fading to a blank. It was the tatter, total Deathliness-in-Life ofSimon, that, while so impressive to see, renders it impossible to bringhim before the reader in his full force of contrast to the young Psyche. He seldom spoke--often, not from morning till night; he now seldomstirred. It is in vain to describe the indescribable: let the readerdraw the picture for himself. And whenever (as I sometimes think hewill, after he has closed this book) he conjures up the idea he attachesto the name of its heroine, let him see before her, as she glidesthrough the humble room--as she listens to the voice of him sheloves--as she sits musing by the window, with the church spire justvisible--as day by day the soul brightens and expands within her--stilllet the reader see within the same walls, greyhaired, blind, dull to allfeeling, frozen to all life, that stony image of Time and Death! Perhapsthen he may understand why they who beheld the real and living Fannyblooming under that chill and mass of shadow, felt that her grace, hersimplicity, her charming beauty, were raised by the contrast, tillthey grew associated with thoughts and images, mysterious and profound, belonging not more to the lovely than to the sublime. 

So there sat the old man; and Philip, though aware of his presence, speaking as if he were alone with Fanny, after touching on more casualtopics, thus addressed her:

"My true and my dear friend, it is to you that I shall owe, not only myrights and fortune, but the vindication of my mother's memory. You havenot only placed flowers upon that gravestone, but it is owing to you, under Providence, that it will be inscribed at last with the Name whichrefutes all calumny. Young and innocent as you now are, my gentle andbeloved benefactress, you cannot as yet know what a blessing it will beto me to engrave that Name upon that simple stone. Hereafter, when youyourself are a wife, a mother, you will comprehend the service you haverendered to the living and the dead!"

He stopped--struggling with the rush of emotions that overflowed hisheart. Alas, THE DEAD! what service can we render to them?--what availedit now, either to the dust below, or to the immortality above, that thefools and knaves of this world should mention the Catherine whose lifewas gone, whose ears were deaf, with more or less respect? There isin calumny that poison that, even when the character throws off theslander, the heart remains diseased beneath the effect. They say thattruth comes sooner or later; but it seldom comes before the soul, passing from agony to contempt, has grown callous to men's judgments. Calumniate a human being in youth--adulate that being in age;--what hasbeen the interval? Will the adulation atone either for the torture, orthe hardness which the torture leaves at last? And if, as in Catherine'scase (a case, how common!), the truth come too late--if the tomb isclosed--if the heart you have wrung can be wrung no more--why the truthis as valueless as the epitaph on a forgotten Name! Some such convictionof the hollowness of his own words, when he spoke of service to thedead, smote upon Philip's heart, and stopped the flow of his words. 

Fanny, conscious only of his praise, his thanks, and the tenderaffection of his voice, stood still silent-her eyes downcast, her breastheaving. 

Philip resumed:

"And now, Fanny, my honoured sister, I would thank you for more, were itpossible, even than this. I shall owe to you not only name and fortune, but happiness. It is from the rights to which you have assisted me, andwhich will shortly be made clear, that I am able to demand a hand I haveso long coveted--the hand of one as dear to me as you are. In a word, the time has, this day, been fixed, when I shall have a home to offerto you and to this old man--when I can present to you a sister who willprize you as I do: for I love you so dearly--I owe you so much--thateven that home would lose half its smiles if you were not there. Do youunderstand me, Fanny? The sister I speak of will be my wife!"

The poor girl who heard this speech of most cruel tenderness did notfall, or faint, or evince any outward emotion, except in a deadlypaleness. She seemed like one turned to stone. Her very breath forsookher for some moments, and then came back with a long deep sigh. She laidher hand lightly on his arm, and said calmly:

"Yes--I understand. We once saw a wedding. You are to be married--Ishall see yours!"

"You shall; and, later, perhaps, I may see your own. "

"I have a brother. Ah! if I could but find him--younger than Iam--beautiful almost as you!"

"You will be happy, " said Fanny, still calmly. 

"I have long placed my hopes of happiness in such a union! Stay, whereare you going?"

"To pray for you, " said Fanny, with a smile, in which there wassomething of the old vacancy, as she walked gently from the room. Philipfollowed her with moistened eyes. Her manner might have deceived onemore vain. He soon after quitted the house, and returned to town. 

Three hours after, Sarah found Fanny stretched on the floor of her ownroom--so still--so white--that, for some moments, the old woman thoughtlife was gone. She recovered, however, by degrees; and, after puttingher hands to her eyes, and muttering some moments, seemed much as usual, except that she was more silent, and that her lips remained colourless, and her hands cold like stone. 

CHAPTER XX. 

 "Vec. Ye see what follows. Duke. O gentle sir! this shape again!"--The Chances. 

That evening Sidney Beaufort arrived in London. It is the nature ofsolitude to make passions calm on the surface--agitated in the deeps. Sidney had placed his whole existence in one object. When the letterarrived that told him to hope no more, he was at first rather sensibleof the terrible and dismal blank--the "void abyss"--to which all hisfuture was suddenly changed, than roused to vehement and turbulentemotion. But Camilla's letter had, as we have seen, raised his courageand animated his heart. To the idea of her faith he still clung withthe instinct of hope in the midst of despair. The tidings that shewas absolutely betrothed to another, and in so short a time since herrejection of him, let loose from all restraint his darker and moretempestuous passions. In a state of mind bordering upon frenzy, hehurried to London--to seek her--to see her; with what intent--what hope, if hope there were--he himself could scarcely tell. But what man who hasloved with fervour and trust will be contented to receive the sentenceof eternal separation except from the very lips of the one thusworshipped and thus foresworn?

The day had been intensely cold. Towards evening the snow fell fast andheavily. Sidney had not, since a child, been before in London; and theimmense City, covered with a wintry and icy mist, through which thehurrying passengers and the slow-moving vehicles passed, spectre-like, along the dismal and slippery streets-opened to the stranger nohospitable arms. He knew not a step of the way--he was pushed to andfro--his scarce intelligible questions impatiently answered--the snowcovered him--the frost pierced to his veins. At length a man, morekindly than the rest, seeing that he was a stranger to London, procuredhim a hackney-coach, and directed the driver to the distant quarterof Berkeley Square. The snow balled under the hoofs of the horses--thegroaning vehicle proceeded at the pace of a hearse. At length, andafter a period of such suspense, and such emotion, as Sidney neverin after-life could recall without a shudder, the coach stopped--thebenumbed driver heavily descended--the sound of the knocker knelled loudthrough the muffled air--and the light from Mr. Beaufort's hall glaredfull upon the dizzy eyes of the visitor. He pushed aside the porter, andsprang into the hall. Luckily, one of the footmen who had attended Mrs. Beaufort to the Lakes recognised him; and, in answer to his breathlessinquiry, said, --

"Why, indeed, Mr. Spencer, Miss Beaufort is at home--up-stairs in thedrawing-room, with master and mistress, and Monsieur de Vaudemont;but--"

Sidney waited no more. He bounded up the stairs--he opened thefirst door that presented itself to him, and burst, unannounced andunlooked-for, upon the eyes of the group seated within. He saw not theterrified start of Mr. Robert Beaufort--he heeded not the faint, nervousexclamation of the mother--he caught not the dark and wondering glace ofthe stranger seated beside Camilla--he saw but Camilla herself, and in amoment he was at her feet. 

"Camilla, I am here!--I, who love you so--I, who have nothing in theworld but you! I am here--to learn from you, and you alone, if I amindeed abandoned--if you are indeed to be another's!"

He had dashed his hat from his brow as he sprang forward; his long fairhair, damp with the snows, fell disordered over his forehead; his eyeswere fixed, as for life and death, upon the pale face and tremblinglips of Camilla. Robert Beaufort, in great alarm, and well aware of thefierce temper of Philip, anticipative of some rash and violent impulse, turned his glance upon his destined son-in-law. But there was no angrypride in the countenance he there beheld. Philip had risen, but hisframe was bent--his knees knocked together--his lips were parted--hiseyes were staring full upon the face of the kneeling man. 

Suddenly Camilla, sharing her father's fear, herself half rose, andwith an unconscious pathos, stretched one hand, as if to shelter, overSidney's head, and looked to Philip. Sidney's eyes followed hers. Hesprang to his feet. 

"What, then, it is true! And this is the man for whom I am abandoned!But unless you--you, with your own lips, tell me that you love me nomore--that you love another--I will not yield you but with life. "

He stalked sternly and impetuously up to Philip, who recoiled as hisrival advanced. The characters of the two men seemed suddenly changed. The timid dreamer seemed dilated into the fearless soldier. The soldierseemed shrinking--quailing-into nameless terror. Sidney grasped thatstrong arm, as Philip still retreated, with his slight and delicatefingers, grasped it with violence and menace; and frowning into the facefrom which the swarthy blood was scared away, said, in a hollow whisper:

"Do you hear me? Do you comprehend me? I say that she shall not beforced into a marriage at which I yet believe her heart rebels. My claimis holier than yours. Renounce her, or win her but with my blood. "

Philip did not apparently hear the words thus addressed to him. Hiswhole senses seemed absorbed in the one sense of sight. He continued togaze upon the speaker, till his eye dropped on the hand that yet gripedhis arm. And as he thus looked, he uttered an inarticulate cry. Hecaught the hand in his own, and pointed to a ring on the finger, butremained speechless. Mr. Beaufort approached, and began some stammeredwords of soothing to Sidney, but Philip motioned him to be silent, and, at last, as if by a violent effort, gasped forth, not to Sidney, but toBeaufort, --

"His name?--his name?"

"It is Mr. Spencer--Mr. Charles Spencer, " cried Beaufort. "Listen to me, I will explain all--I--"

"Hush, hush! cried Philip; and turning to Sidney, he put his hand on hisshoulder, and looking him full in the face, said, --

"Have you not known another name? Are you not--yes, it is so--it is--itis! Follow me--follow!"

And still retaining his grasp, and leading Sidney, who was now subdued, awed, and a prey to new and wild suspicions, he moved on gently, strideby stride--his eyes fixed on that fair face--his lips muttering-till theclosing door shut both forms from the eyes of the three there left. 

It was the adjoining room into which Philip led his rival. It was litbut by a small reading-lamp, and the bright, steady blaze of the fire;and by this light they both continued to gaze on each other, as ifspellbound, in complete silence. At last Philip, by an irresistibleimpulse, fell upon Sidney's bosom, and, clasping him with convulsiveenergy, gasped out:

"Sidney!--Sidney!--my mother's son!"

"What!" exclaimed Sidney, struggling from the embrace, and at lastfreeing himself; "it is you, then!--you, my own brother! You, who havebeen hitherto the thorn in my path, the cloud in my fate! You, who arenow come to make me a wretch for life! I love that woman, and you tearher from me! You, who subjected my infancy to hardship, and, but forProvidence, might have degraded my youth, by your example, into shameand guilt!"

"Forbear!--forbear!" cried Philip, with a voice so shrill in its agony, that it smote the hearts of those in the adjoining chamber like theshriek of some despairing soul. They looked at each other, but not onehad the courage to break upon the interview. 

Sidney himself was appalled by the sound. He threw himself on a seat, and, overcome by passions so new to him, by excitement so strange, hidhis face, and sobbed as a child. 

Philip walked rapidly to and fro the room for some moments; at length hepaused opposite to Sidney, and said, with the deep calmness of a wrongedand goaded spirit:

"Sidney Beaufort, hear me! When my mother died she confided you tomy care, my love, and my protection. In the last lines that her handtraced, she bade me think less of myself than of you; to be to you as afather as well as brother. The hour that I read that letter I fell onmy knees, and vowed that I would fulfil that injunction--that I wouldsacrifice my very self, if I could give fortune or happiness to you. Andthis not for your sake alone, Sidney; no! but as my mother--our wronged, our belied, our broken-hearted mother!--O Sidney, Sidney! have you notears for her, too?" He passed his hand over his own eyes for a moment, and resumed: "But as our mother, in that last letter, said to me, 'letmy love pass into your breast for him, ' so, Sidney, so, in all that Icould do for you, I fancied that my mother's smile looked down uponme, and that in serving you it was my mother whom I obeyed. Perhaps, hereafter, Sidney, when we talk over that period of my earlier life whenI worked for you, when the degradation you speak of (there was no crimein it!)--was borne cheerfully for your sake, and yours the holidaythough mine the task--perhaps, hereafter, you will do me more justice. You left me, or were reft from me, and I gave all the little fortunethat my mother had bequeathed us, to get some tidings from you. Ireceived your letter--that bitter letter--and I cared not then that Iwas a beggar, since I was alone. You talk of what I have cost you--youtalk! and you now ask me to--to--Merciful Heaven! let meunderstand you--do you love Camilla? Does she love you?Speak--speak--explain--what, new agony awaits me?"

It was then that Sidney, affected and humbled, amidst all his moreselfish sorrows, by his brother's language and manner, related, assuccinctly as he could, the history of his affection for Camilla, thecircumstances of their engagement, and ended by placing before him theletter he had received from Mr. Beaufort. 

In spite of all his efforts for self-control, Philip's anguish was sogreat, so visible, that Sidney, after looking at his working features, his trembling hands, for a moment, felt all the earlier parts of hisnature melt in a flow of generous sympathy and remorse. He flung himselfon the breast from which he had shrunk before, and cried, --

"Brother, brother! forgive me; I see how I have wronged you. If she hasforgotten me, if she love you, take her and be happy!"

Philip returned his embrace, but without warmth, and then moved away;and, again, in great disorder, paced the room. His brother only hearddisjointed exclamations that seemed to escape him unawares: "They saidshe loved me! Heaven give me strength! Mother--mother! let me fulfil myvow! Oh, that I had died ere this!" He stopped at last, and the largedews rolled down his forehead. "Sidney!" said he, "there is a mysteryhere that I comprehend not. But my mind now is very confused. If sheloves you--if!--is it possible for a woman to love two? Well, well, I goto solve the riddle: wait here!"

He vanished into the next room, and for nearly half an hour Sidney wasalone. He heard through the partition murmured voices; he caught moreclearly the sound of Camilla's sobs. The particulars of that interviewbetween Philip and Camilla, alone at first (afterwards Mr. RobertBeaufort was re-admitted), Philip never disclosed, nor could Sidneyhimself ever obtain a clear account from Camilla, who could not recallit, even years after, without great emotion. But at last the door wasopened, and Philip entered, leading Camilla by the hand. His face wascalm, and there was a smile on his lips; a greater dignity than even. That habitual to him was diffused over his whole person. Camilla washolding her handkerchief to her eyes and weeping passionately. Mr. Beaufort followed them with a mortified and slinking air. 

"Sidney, " said Philip, "it is past. All is arranged. I yield to yourearlier, and therefore better, claim. Mr. Beaufort consents to yourunion. He will tell you, at some fitter time, that our birthright isat last made clear, and that there is no blot on the name we shallhereafter bear. Sidney, embrace your bride!"

Amazed, delighted, and still half incredulous, Sidney seized and kissedthe hand of Camilla; and as he then drew her to his breast, she said, asshe pointed to Philip:--

"Oh! if you do love me as you say, see in him the generous, the noble--"Fresh sobs broke off her speech; but as Sidney sought again to take herhand, she whispered, with a touching and womanly sentiment, "Ah! respecthim: see!--" and Sidney, looking then at his brother, saw, that thoughhe still attempted to smile, his lip writhed, and his features weredrawn together, as one whose frame is wrung by torture, but whostruggles not to groan. 

He flew to Philip, who, grasping his hand, held him back, and said, --

"I have fulfilled my vow! I have given you up the only blessing mylife has known. Enough, you are happy, and I shall be so too, when Godpleases to soften this blow. And now you must not wonder or blameme, if, though so lately found, I leave you for a while. Do me onekindness, --you, Sidney--you, Mr. Beaufort. Let the marriage take placeat H----, in the village church by which my mother sleeps; let it bedelayed till the suit is terminated: by that time I shall hope to meetyou all--to meet you, Camilla, as I ought to meet my brother's wife;till then, my presence will not sadden your happiness. Do not seek tosee me; do not expect to hear from me. Hist! be silent, all of you; myheart is yet bruised and sore. O THOU, " and here, deepening his voice, he raised his arms, "Thou who hast preserved my youth from such snaresand such peril, who hast guided my steps from the abyss to which theywandered, and beneath whose hand I now bow, grateful if chastened, receive this offering, and bless that union! Fare ye well. "

CHAPTER XXI. 

 "Heaven's airs amid the harpstrings dwell; And we wish they ne'er may fade; They cease; and the soul is a silent cell, Where music never played. Dream follows dream through the long night-hours. " WILSON: The Past, a poem. 

The self-command which Philip had obtained for a while deserted him whenhe was without the house. His mind felt broken up into chaos; he hurriedon, mechanically, on foot; he passed street upon street, now solitaryand deserted, as the lamps gleamed upon the thick snow. The city wasleft behind him. He paused not, till, breathless, and exhausted inspirit if not in frame, he reached the churchyard where Catherine's dustreposed. The snow had ceased to fall, but it lay deep over the graves;the yew-trees, clad in their white shrouds, gleamed ghost-like throughthe dimness. Upon the rail that fenced the tomb yet hung a wreath thatFanny's hand had placed there. But the flowers were hid; it was a wreathof snow! Through the intervals of the huge and still clouds, theregleamed a few melancholy stars. The very calm of the holy spot seemedunutterably sad. The Death of the year overhung the Death of man. And asPhilip bent over the tomb, within and without all was ICE and NIGHT!

For hours he remained on that spot, alone with his grief and absorbed inhis prayer. Long past midnight Fanny heard his step on the stairs, andthe door of his chamber close with unwonted violence. She heard, too, for some time, his heavy tread on the floor, till suddenly all wassilent. The next morning, when, at the usual hour, Sarah entered tounclose the shutters and light the fire, she was startled by wildexclamations and wilder laughter. The fever had mounted to the brain--hewas delirious. 

For several weeks Philip Beaufort was in imminent danger; for aconsiderable part of that time he was unconscious; and when the perilwas past, his recovery was slow and gradual. It was the only illnessto which his vigorous frame had ever been subjected: and the feverhad perhaps exhausted him more than it might have done one in whoseconstitution the disease had encountered less resistance. His brother;imagining he had gone abroad, was unacquainted with his danger. Nonetended his sick-bed save the hireling nurse, the feed physician, and theunpurchasable heart of the only being to whom the wealth and rank of theHeir of Beaufort Court were as nothing. Here was reserved for him Fate'scrowning lesson, in the vanity of those human wishes which anchor ingold and power. For how many years had the exile and the outcast pinedindignantly for his birthright?--Lo! it was won: and with it came thecrushed heart and the smitten frame. As he slowly recovered sense andreasoning, these thoughts struck him forcibly. He felt as if he wererightly punished in having disdained, during his earlier youth, the enjoyments within his reach. Was there nothing in the glorioushealth--the unconquerable hope--the heart, if wrung, and chafed, andsorely tried, free at least from the direst anguish of the passions, disappointed and jealous love? Though now certain, if spared to thefuture, to be rich, powerful, righted in name and honour, might he notfrom that sick-bed envy his earlier past? even when with his brotherorphan he wandered through the solitary fields, and felt with whatenergies we are gifted when we have something to protect; or when, loving and beloved, he saw life smile out to him in the eyes of Eugenie;or when, after that melancholy loss, he wrestled boldly, and breast tobreast with Fortune, in a far land, for honour and independence? Thereis something in severe illness, especially if it be in violent contrastto the usual strength of the body, which has often the most salutaryeffect upon the mind; which often, by the affliction of the frame, roughly wins us from the too morbid pains of the heart! which makes usfeel that, in mere LIFE, enjoyed as the robust enjoy it, God's GreatPrinciple of Good breathes and moves. We rise thus from the sick-bedsoftened and humbled, and more disposed to look around us for suchblessings as we may yet command. 

The return of Philip, his danger, the necessity of exertion, of tendinghim, had roused Fanny from a state which might otherwise have beenpermanently dangerous to the intellect so lately ripened within her. With what patience, with what fortitude, with what unutterable thoughtand devotion, she fulfilled that best and holiest woman's duty--let theman whose struggle with life and death has been blessed with the vigilthat wakes and saves, imagine to himself. And in all her anxiety andterror, she had glimpses of a happiness which it seemed to her almostcriminal to acknowledge. For, even in his delirium, her voice seemed tohave some soothing influence over him, and he was calmer while she wasby. And when at last he was conscious, her face was the first he saw, and her name the first which his lips uttered. As then he grew graduallystronger, and the bed was deserted for the sofa, he took more than theold pleasure in hearing her read to him; which she did with a feelingthat lecturers cannot teach. And once, in a pause from this occupation, he spoke to her frankly, --he sketched his past history--his lastsacrifice. And Fanny, as she wept, learned that he was no moreanother's!

It has been said that this man, naturally of an active and impatienttemperament, had been little accustomed to seek those resources whichare found in books. But somehow in that sick chamber--it was Fanny'svoice--the voice of her over whose mind he had once so haughtilylamented, that taught him how much of aid and solace the Herd of Menderive from the Everlasting Genius of the Few. 

Gradually, and interval by interval, moment by moment, thus drawntogether, all thought beyond shut out (for, however crushing for thetime the blow that had stricken Philip from health and reason, hewas not that slave to a guilty fancy, that he could voluntarilyindulge--that he would not earnestly seek to shun--all sentiments'chat yet turned with unholy yearning towards the betrothed of hisbrother);--gradually, I say, and slowly, came those progressive anddelicious epochs which mark a revolution in the affections:--unspeakablegratitude, brotherly tenderness, the united strength of compassionand respect that he had felt for Fanny seemed, as he gained health, tomellow into feelings yet more exquisite and deep. He could no longerdelude himself with a vain and imperious belief that it was a defectivemind that his heart protected; he began again to be sensible to the rarebeauty of that tender face--more lovely, perhaps, for the paleness thathad replaced its bloom. The fancy that he had so imperiously checkedbefore--before he saw Camilla, returned to him, and neither pride norhonour had now the right to chase the soft wings away. One evening, fancying himself alone, he fell into a profound reverie; he awoke witha start, and the exclamation, "was it true love that I ever felt forCamilla, or a passion, a frenzy, a delusion?"

His exclamation was answered by a sound that seemed both of joy andgrief. He looked up, and saw Fanny before him; the light of the moon, just risen, fell full on her form, but her hands were clasped before herface; he heard her sob. 

"Fanny, dear Fanny!" he cried, and sought to throw himself from the sofato her feet. But she drew herself away, and fled from the chamber silentas a dream. 

Philip rose, and, for the first time since his illness, walked, but withfeeble steps, to and fro the room. With what different emotions fromthose in which last, in fierce and intolerable agony, he had paced thatnarrow boundary! Returning health crept through his veins--a serene, a kindly, a celestial joy circumfused his heart. Had the time yet comewhen the old Florimel had melted into snow; when the new and the trueone, with its warm life, its tender beauty, its maiden wealth of love, had risen before his hopes? He paused before the window; the spot withinseemed so confined, the night without so calm and lovely, that he forgothis still-clinging malady, and unclosed the casement: the air came softand fresh upon his temples, and the church-tower and spire, for thefirst time, did not seem to him to rise in gloom against the heavens. Even the gravestone of Catherine, half in moonlight, half in shadow, appeared to him to wear a smile. His mother's memory was become linkedwith the living Fanny. 

"Thou art vindicated--thy Sidney is happy, " he murmured: "to her thethanks!"

Fair hopes, and soft thoughts busy within him, he remained at thecasement till the increasing chill warned him of the danger he incurred. 

The next day, when the physician visited him, he found the fever hadreturned. For many days, Philip was again in danger--dull, unconsciouseven of the step and voice of Fanny. 

He woke at last as from a long and profound sleep; woke so refreshed, so revived, that he felt at once that some great crisis had been passed, and that at length he had struggled back to the sunny shores of Life. 

By his bedside sat Liancourt, who, long alarmed at his disappearance, had at last contrived, with the help of Mr. Barlow, to trace him toGawtrey's house, and had for several days taken share in the vigils ofpoor Fanny. 

While he was yet explaining all this to Philip, and congratulatinghim on his evident recovery, the physician entered to confirm thecongratulation. In a few days the invalid was able to quit his room, andnothing but change of air seemed necessary for his convalescence. It wasthen that Liancourt, who had for two days seemed impatient to unburdenhimself of some communication, thus addressed him:--

"My--My dear friend, I have learned now your story from Barlow, whocalled several times during your relapse; and who is the more anxiousabout you, as the time for the decision of your case now draws near. Thesooner you quit this house the better. "

"Quit this house! and why? Is there not one in this house to whom I owemy fortune and my life?"

"Yes; and for that reason I say, 'Go hence:' it is the only return youcan make her. "

"Pshaw!--speak intelligibly. "

"I will, " said Liancourt, gravely. "I have been a watcher with herby your sick-bed, and I know what you must feel already:--nay, I mustconfess that even the old servant has ventured to speak to me. You haveinspired that poor girl with feelings dangerous to her peace. "

"Ha!" cried Philip, with such joy that Liancourt frowned, and said, "Hitherto I have believed you too honourable to--"

"So you think she loves me?" interrupted Philip. "Yes; what then? You, the heir of Beaufort Court, of a rental of L20, 000. A year, --of anhistorical name, --you cannot marry this poor girl?"

"Well!--I will consider what you say, and, at all events, I will leavethe house to attend the result of the trial. Let us talk no more on thesubject now. "

Philip had the penetration to perceive that Liancourt, who was greatlymoved by the beauty, the innocence, and the unprotected position ofFanny, had not confined caution to himself; that with his characteristicwell-meaning bluntness, and with the license of a man somewhat advancedin years, he had spoken to Fanny herself: for Fanny now seemed to shunPhilip, --her eyes were heavy, her manner was embarrassed. He saw thechange, but it did not grieve him; he hailed the omens which he drewfrom it. 

And at last he and Liancourt went. He was absent three weeks, duringwhich time the formality of the friendly lawsuit was decided in theplaintiff's favour; and the public were in ecstasies at the nobleand sublime conduct of Mr. Robert Beaufort: who, the moment he haddiscovered a document which he might so easily have buried for ever inoblivion, voluntarily agreed to dispossess himself of estates he had solong enjoyed, preferring conscience to lucre. Some persons observed thatit was reported that Mr. Philip Beaufort had also been generous--that hehad agreed to give up the estates for his uncle's life, and was onlyin the meanwhile to receive a fourth of the revenues. But the universalcomment was, "He could not have done less!" Mr. Robert Beaufort was, asLord Lilburne had once observed, a man who was born, made, and rearedto be spoken well of by the world; and it was a comfort to him now, poor man, to feel that his character was so highly estimated. IfPhilip should live to the age of one hundred, he will never become sorespectable and popular a man with the crowd as his worthy uncle. Butdoes it much matter? Philip returned to H---- the eve before the dayfixed for the marriage of his brother and Camilla. 

CHAPTER XII. 

 From Night, Sunshine and Day arose--HES

The sun of early May shone cheerfully over the quiet suburb of H----. Inthe thoroughfares life was astir. It was the hour of noon--the hour atwhich commerce is busy, and streets are full. The old retired trader, eying wistfully the rolling coach or the oft-pausing omnibus, wasbreathing the fresh and scented air in the broadest and most crowdedroad, from which, afar in the distance, rose the spires of themetropolis. The boy let loose from the day-school was hurrying hometo dinner, his satchel on his back: the ballad-singer was sending hercracked whine through the obscurer alleys, where the baker's boy, withpuddings on his tray, and the smart maid-servant, despatched for porter, paused to listen. And round the shops where cheap shawls and cottonstempted the female eye, many a loitering girl detained her impatientmother, and eyed the tickets and calculated her hard-gained savings forthe Sunday gear. And in the corners of the streets steamed the itinerantkitchens of the piemen, and rose the sharp cry, "All hot! all hot!" inthe ear of infant and ragged hunger. And amidst them all rolled on somelazy coach of ancient merchant or withered maiden, unconscious of anylife but that creeping through their own languid veins. And before thehouse in which Catherine died, there loitered many stragglers, gossips, of the hamlet, subscribers to the news-room hard by, to guess, andspeculate, and wonder why, from the church behind, there rose the merrypeal of the marriage-bell!

At length along the broad road leading from the great city, there wereseen rapidly advancing three carriages of a very different fashion fromthose familiar to the suburb. On they came; swiftly they whirled roundthe angle that conducted to the church; the hoofs of the gay steedsringing cheerily on the ground; the white favours of the servantsgleaming in the sun. Happy is the bride the sun shines on! And when thecarriages had thus vanished, the scattered groups melted into one crowd, and took their way to the church. They stood idling without in theburial-ground; many of them round the fence that guarded fromtheir footsteps Catherine's lonely grave. All in nature was glad, exhilarating, and yet serene; a genial freshness breathed through thesoft air; not a cloud was to be seen in the smiling azure; even the olddark yews seemed happy in their everlasting verdure. The bell ceased, and then even the crowd grew silent; and not a sound was heard in thatsolemn spot to whose demesnes are consecrated alike the Birth, theMarriage, and the Death. 

At length there came forth from the church door the goodly form of arosy beadle. Approaching the groups, he whispered the better-dressedand commanded the ragged, remonstrated with the old and lifted his caneagainst the young; and the result of all was, that the churchyard, notwithout many a murmur and expostulation, was cleared, and the crowd fellback in the space behind the gates of the principal entrance, where theyswayed and gaped and chattered round the carriages, which were to bearaway the bridal party. 

Within the church, as the ceremony was now concluded, Philip Beaufortconducted, hand-in-hand, silently along the aisle, his brother's wife. 

Leaning on his stick, his cold sneer upon his thin lip, Lord Lilburnelimped, step by step, with the pair, though a little apart from them, glancing from moment to moment at the face of Philip Beaufort, where hehad hoped to read a grief that he could not detect. Lord Lilburne hadcarefully refrained from an interview with Philip till that day, andhe now only came to the wedding as a surgeon goes to an hospital, toexamine a disease he had been told would be great and sore: he wasdisappointed. Close behind followed Sidney, radiant with joy, and bloom, and beauty; and his kind guardian, the tears rolling down his eyes, murmured blessings as he looked upon him. Mrs. Beaufort had declinedattending the ceremony--her nerves were too weak--but, behind, at alonger interval, came Robert Beaufort, sober, staid, collected as everto outward seeming; but a close observer might have seen that his eyehad lost its habitual complacent cunning, that his step was moreheavy, his stoop more joyless. About his air there was a some thingcrestfallen. The consciousness of acres had passed away from his portlypresence. He was no longer a possessor, but a pensioner. The rich man, who had decided as he pleased on the happiness of others, was a cipher;he had ceased to have any interest in anything. What to him the marriageof his daughter now? Her children would not be the heirs of Beaufort. As Camilla kindly turned round, and through happy tears waited for hisapproach, to clasp his hand, he forced a smile, but it was sickly andpiteous. He longed to creep away, and be alone. 

"My father!" said Camilla, in her sweet low voice; and she extricatedherself from Philip, and threw herself on his breast. 

"She is a good child, " said Robert Beaufort vacantly, and, turninghis dry eyes to the group, he caught instinctively at his customarycommonplaces;--"and a good child, Mr. Sidney, makes a good wife!"

The clergyman bowed as if the compliment were addressed to himself: hewas the only man there whom Robert Beaufort could now deceive. 

"My sister, " said Philip Beaufort, as once more leaning on his arm, theypaused before the church door, "may Sidney love and prize you as--asI would have done; and believe me, both of you, I have no regret, nomemory, that wounds me now. "

He dropped the hand, and motioned to her father to load her to thecarriage. Then winding his arm into Sidney's, he said, --

"Wait till they are gone: I have one word yet with you. Go on, gentlemen. "

The clergyman bowed, and walked through the churchyard. But Lilburne, pausing and surveying Philip Beaufort, said to him, whisperingly, --

"And so much for feeling--the folly! So much for generosity--thedelusion! Happy man!"

"I am thoroughly happy, Lord Lilburne. "

"Are you?--Then, it was neither feeling nor generosity; and we weretaken in! Good day. " With that he limped slowly to the gate. 

Philip answered not the sarcasm even by a look. For at that moment aloud shout was set up by the mob without--they had caught a glimpse ofthe bride. 

"Come, Sidney, this way. " he said; "I must not detain you long. "

Arm in arm they passed out of the church, and turned to the spot hardby, where the flowers smiled up to them from the stone on their mother'sgrave. 

The old inscription had been effaced, and the name of CATHERINE BEAUFORTwas placed upon the stone. "Brother, " said Philip, "do not forget thisgrave: years hence, when children play around your own hearth. Observe, the name of Catherine Beaufort is fresher on the stone than the datesof birth and death--the name was only inscribed there to-day--yourwedding-day. Brother, by this grave we are now indeed united. "

"Oh, Philip!" cried Sidney, in deep emotion, clasping the hand stretchedout to him; "I feel, I feel how noble, how great you are--that you havesacrificed more than I dreamed of--"

"Hush!" said Philip, with a smile. "No talk of this. I am happier thanyou deem me. Go back now--she waits you. "

"And you?--leave you!--alone!"

"Not alone, " said Philip, pointing to the grave. 

Scarce had he spoken when, from the gate, came the shrill, clear voiceof Lord Lilburne, --

"We wait for Mr. Sidney Beaufort. "

Sidney passed his hand over his eyes, wrung the hand of his brother oncemore, and in a moment was by Camilla's side. 

Another shout--the whirl of the wheels--the trampling of feet--thedistant hum and murmur--and all was still. The clerk returned to lock upthe church--he did not observe where Philip stood in the shadow of thewall--and went home to talk of the gay wedding, and inquire at whathour the funeral of the young woman; his next-door neighbour, would takeplace the next day. 

It might be a quarter of an hour after Philip was thus left--nor had hemoved from the spot--when he felt his sleeve pulled gently. He turnedround and saw before him the wistful face of Fanny!

"So you would not come to the wedding?" said he. 

"No. But I fancied you might be here alone--and sad. "

"And you will not even wear the dress I gave you?"

"Another time. Tell me, are you unhappy?"

"Unhappy, Fanny! No; look around. The very burial-ground has a smile. See the laburnums clustering over the wall, listen to the birds on thedark yews above, and yonder see even the butterfly has settled upon hergrave!

"I am not unhappy. " As he thus spoke he looked at her earnestly, and taking both her hands in his, drew her gently towards him, andcontinued: "Fanny, do you remember, that, leaning over that gate, I oncespoke to you of the happiness of marriage where two hearts are united?Nay, Fanny, nay, I must go on. It was here in this spot, --it was herethat I first saw you on my return to England. I came to seek the dead, and I have thought since, it was my mother's guardian spirit that drewme hither to find you--the living! And often afterwards, Fanny, youwould come with me here, when, blinded and dull as I was, I came tobrood and to repine, insensible of the treasures even then perhapswithin my reach. But, best as it was: the ordeal through which I havepassed has made me more grateful for the prize I now dare to hope for. On this grave your hand daily renewed the flowers. By this grave, thelink between the Time and the Eternity, whose lessons we have readtogether, will you consent to record our vows? Fanny, dearest, fairest, tenderest, best, I love you, and at last as alone you should beloved!--I woo you as my wife! Mine, not for a season, but for ever--forever, even when these graves are open, and the World shrivels like ascroll. Do you understand me?--do you heed me?--or have I dreamed thatthat--"

He stopped short--a dismay seized him at her silence. Had he beenmistaken in his divine belief!--the fear was momentary: for Fanny, whohad recoiled as he spoke, now placing her hands to her temples, gazingon him, breathlessly and with lips apart, as if, indeed, with greateffort and struggle her modest spirit conceived the possibility of thehappiness that broke upon it, advanced timidly, her face suffused inblushes; and, looking into his eyes, as if she would read into his verysoul, said, with an accent, the intenseness of which showed that herwhole fate hung on his answer, --

"But this is pity?--they have told you that I--in short, you aregenerous--you--you--Oh, deceive me not! Do you love her still?--Canyou--do you love the humble, foolish Fanny?"

"As God shall judge me, sweet one, I am sincere! I have survived apassion--never so deep, so tender, so entire as that I now feel for you!And, oh, Fanny, hear this true confession. It was you--you to whom myheart turned before I saw Camilla!--against that impulse I struggled inthe blindness of a haughty error!"

Fanny uttered a low and suppressed cry of delight and rapture. Philippassionately continued, --

"Fanny, make blessed the life you have saved. Fate destined us foreach other. Fate for me has ripened your sweet mind. Fate for you hassoftened this rugged heart. We may have yet much to bear and much tolearn. We will console and teach each other!"

He drew her to his breast as he spoke--drew her trembling, blushing, confused, but no more reluctant; and there, by the GRAVE that had beenso memorable a scene in their common history, were murmured thosevows in which all this world knows of human happiness is treasured andrecorded--love that takes the sting from grief, and faith that giveseternity to love. All silent, yet all serene around them! Above, theheaven, --at their feet, the grave:--For the love, the grave!--for thefaith, the heaven!

CHAPTER THE LAST. 

 "A labore reclinat otium. "--HORAT. 

 [Leisure unbends itself from labour. ]

I feel that there is some justice in the affection the general readerentertains for the old-fashioned and now somewhat obsolete custom, ofgiving to him, at the close of a work, the latest news of those whosought his acquaintance through its progress. 

The weak but well-meaning Smith, no more oppressed by the evilinfluence of his brother, has continued to pass his days in comfort andrespectability on the income settled on him by Philip Beaufort. Mr. AndMrs. Roger Morton still live, and have just resigned their business totheir eldest son; retiring themselves to a small villa adjoining thetown in which they had made their fortune. Mrs. Morton is very apt, whenshe goes out to tea, to talk of her dear deceased sister-in-law, thelate Mrs. Beaufort, and of her own remarkable kindness to her nephewwhen a little boy. She observes that, in fact, the young men oweeverything to Mr. Roger and herself; and, indeed, though Sidney wasnever of a grateful disposition, and has not been near her since, yetthe elder brother, the Mr. Beaufort, always evinces his respect to themby the yearly present of a fat buck. She then comments on the ups anddowns of life; and observes that it is a pity her son Tom preferred themedical profession to the church. Their cousin, Mr. Beaufort, has twolivings. To all this Mr. Roger says nothing, except an occasional "ThankHeaven, I want no man's help! I am as well to do as my neighbours. Butthat's neither here nor there. "

There are some readers--they who do not thoroughly consider the truthsof this life--who will yet ask, "But how is Lord Lilburne punished?"Punished?--ay, and indeed, how? The world, and not the poet, must answerthat question. Crime is punished from without. If Vice is punished, itmust be from within. The Lilburnes of this hollow world are not to bepelted with the soft roses of poetical justice. They who ask why he isnot punished may be the first to doff the hat to the equipage in whichmy lord lolls through the streets! The only offence he habituallycommitted of a nature to bring the penalties of detection, he renouncedthe moment he perceived there was clanger of discovery! he gambled nomore after Philip's hint. He was one of those, some years after, mostbitter upon a certain nobleman charged with unfair play--one of thosewho took the accusation as proved; and whose authority settled alldisputes thereon. 

But, if no thunderbolt falls on Lord Lilburne's head--if he is fatedstill to eat, and drink, and to die on his bed, he may yet taste theashes of the Dead Sea fruit which his hands have culled. He isgrown old. His infirmities increase upon him; his sole resources ofpleasure--the senses--are dried up. For him there is no longer savourin the viands, or sparkle in the wine, --man delights him not, nor womanneither. He is alone with Old Age, and in the sight of Death. 

With the exception of Simon, who died in his chair not many days afterSidney's marriage, Robert Beaufort is the only one among the moreimportant agents left at the last scene of this history who has passedfrom our mortal stage. 

After the marriage of his daughter he for some time moped and drooped. But Philip learned from Mr. Blackwell of the will that Robert had madepreviously to the lawsuit; and by which, had the lawsuit failed, his rights would yet have been preserved to him. Deeply moved by agenerosity he could not have expected from his uncle, and not pausingto inquire too closely how far it was to be traced to the influence ofArthur, Philip so warmly expressed his gratitude, and so surroundedMr. Beaufort with affectionate attentions, that the poor man began torecover his self-respect, --began even to regard the nephew he had solong dreaded, as a son, --to forgive him for not marrying Camilla. And, perhaps, to his astonishment, an act in his life for which the customsof the world (that never favour natural ties not previously sanctionedby the legal) would have rather censured than praised, became hisconsolation; and the memory he was most proud to recall. He graduallyrecovered his spirits; he was very fond of looking over that will: hecarefully preserved it: he even flattered himself that it was necessaryto preserve Philip from all possible litigation hereafter; for if theestates were not legally Philip's, why, then, they were his to disposeof as he pleased. He was never more happy than when his successor was byhis side; and was certainly a more cheerful and, I doubt not, a betterman--during the few years in which he survived the law-suit--than everhe had been before. He died--still member for the county, and stillquoted as a pattern to county members--in Philip's arms; and on his lipsthere was a smile that even Lilburne would have called sincere. 

Mrs. Beaufort, after her husband's death, established herself inLondon; and could never be persuaded to visit Beaufort Court. She took acompanion, who more than replaced, in her eyes, the absence of Camilla. 

And Camilla-Spencer-Sidney. They live still by the gentle Lake, happy intheir own serene joys and graceful leisure; shunning alike ambition andits trials, action and its sharp vicissitudes; envying no one, covetousof nothing; making around them, in the working world, something of theold pastoral and golden holiday. If Camilla had at one time wavered inher allegiance to Sidney, her good and simple heart has long since beenentirely regained by his devotion; and, as might be expected from herdisposition, she loved him better after marriage than before. 

Philip had gone through severer trials than Sidney. But, had theirearlier fates been reversed, and that spirit, in youth so haughty andself-willed, been lapped in ease and luxury, would Philip now be abetter or a happier man? Perhaps, too, for a less tranquil existencethan his brother, Philip yet may be reserved; but, in proportion to theuses of our destiny, do we repose or toil: he who never knows pain knowsbut the half of pleasure. The lot of whatever is most noble on the earthbelow falls not amidst the rosy Gardels of the Epicurean. We may envythe man who enjoys and rests; but the smile of Heaven settles rather onthe front of him who labours and aspires. 

And did Philip ever regret the circumstances that had given him Fannyfor the partner of his life? To some who take their notions of theIdeal from the conventional rules of romance, rather than from theirown perceptions of what is true, this narrative would have been morepleasing had Philip never loved but Fanny. But all that had led to thatlove had only served to render it more enduring and concentred. Man'sstrongest and worthiest affection is his last--is the one that unitesand embodies all his past dreams of what is excellent--the one fromwhich Hope springs out the brighter from former disappointments--the onein which the MEMORIES are the most tender and the most abundant--the onewhich, replacing all others, nothing hereafter can replace. 

 . .. .. . 

And now ere the scene closes, and the audience, whom perhaps the actorsmay have interested for a while, disperse, to forget amidst the pursuitsof actual life the Shadows that have amused an hour, or beguiled a care, let the curtain fall on one happy picture:--

It is some years after the marriage of Philip and Fanny. It is a summermorning. In a small old-fashioned room at Beaufort Court, with itscasements open to the gardens, stood Philip, having just entered; andnear the window sat Fanny, his boy by her side. She was at the mother'shardest task--the first lessons to the first-born child; and as the boylooked up at her sweet earnest face with a smile of intelligence onhis own, you might have seen at a glance how well understood were theteacher and the pupil. Yes: whatever might have been wanting in theVirgin to the full development of mind, the cares of the mother hadsupplied. When a being was born to lean on her alone--dependent onher providence for life--then hour after hour, step after step, in theprogress of infant destinies, had the reason of the mother grown in thechild's growth, adapting itself to each want that it must foresee, andtaking its perfectness and completion from the breath of the New Love!

The child caught sight of Philip and rushed to embrace him. 

"See!" whispered Fanny, as she also hung upon him, and strangerecollections of her own mysterious childhood crowded upon her, --"See, "whispered she, with a blush half of shame and half of pride, "the pooridiot girl is the teacher of your child!"

"And, " answered Philip, "whether for child or mother, what teacher islike Love?"

Thus saying, he took the boy into his arms; and, as he bent over thoserosy cheeks, Fanny saw, from the movement of his lips and the moisturein his eyes, that he blessed God. He looked upon the mother's face, heglanced round on the flowers and foliage of the luxurious summer, andagain he blessed God: And without and within, it was Light and MORNING!

THE END.