Night and Morning, Complete

CHAPTER IX.

   “But oh, what storm was in that mind!”—CRABBE. Ruth

While Philip mused, and his brother fell into the happy sleep of childhood, in a room in the principal hotel of the town sat three persons, Arthur Beaufort, Mr. Spencer, and Mr. Blackwell.

“And so,” said the first, “he rejected every overture from the Beauforts?”

“With a scorn I cannot convey to you!” replied the lawyer. “But the fact is, that he is evidently a lad of low habits; to think of his being a sort of helper to a horse dealer! I suppose, sir, he was always in the stables 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 talking with, as I told you, is a common swindler. Depend on it, Mr. Arthur, he is incorrigible; all we can do is to save the brother.”

“It is too dreadful to contemplate!” said Arthur, who, still ill and languid, reclined on a sofa.

“It is, indeed,” said Mr. Spencer; “I am sure I should not know what to do with such a character; but the other poor child, it would be a mercy to get hold of him.”

“Where is Mr. Sharp?” asked Arthur.

“Why,” said the lawyer, “he has followed Philip at a distance to find out 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. “What a fierce ‘un he is! I thought he would have had a stone at my head; but we officers are used to it; we does our duty, and Providence makes our heads unkimmon hard!”

“Is the child with him?” asked Mr. Spencer.

“Yes, sir.”

“A little, quiet, subdued boy?” asked the melancholy inhabitant of the Lakes.

“Quiet! Lord love you! never heard a noisier little urchin! There they were, 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 as himself.”

“What shall us do, Mr. Blackwell?” asked Sharp, who longed for his brandy and water.

“Why, I was thinking you might go to the horse-dealer the first thing in the morning; find out whether Philip is really thick with the swindler; and, perhaps, Mr. Stubmore may have some influence with him, if, without saying who he is—”

“Yes,” interrupted Arthur, “do not expose his name.”

“You could still hint that he ought to be induced to listen to his friends 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. We learns to know human natur in our profession;—‘cause why? we gets at its blind side. Good night, gentlemen!”

“You seem very pale, Mr. Arthur; you had better go to bed; you promised your father, you know.”

“Yes, I am not well; I will go to bed;” and Arthur rose, lighted his candle, and sought his room.

“I will see Philip to-morrow,” he said to himself; “he will listen to me.”

The conduct of Arthur Beaufort in executing the charge he had undertaken had brought into full light all the most amiable and generous part of his character. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he had expressed so much anxiety as to the fate of the orphans, that to quiet him his father was forced to send for Mr. Blackwell. The lawyer had ascertained, through Dr. ——, the name of Philip’s employer at R——. At Arthur’s request he went down to Mr. Plaskwith; and arriving there the day after the return of the bookseller, learned those particulars with which Mr. Plaskwith’s letter to Roger Morton has already made the reader acquainted. The lawyer then sent for Mr. Sharp, the officer before employed, and commissioned him to track the young man’s whereabout. That shrewd functionary soon reported that a youth every way answering to Philip’s description had been introduced the night of the escape by a man celebrated, not indeed for robberies, or larcenies, or crimes of the coarser kind, but for address in all that more large and complex character which comes under the denomination of living upon one’s wits, to a polite rendezvous frequented by persons of a similar profession. Since then, however, all clue of Philip was lost. But though Mr. Blackwell, in the way of his profession, was thus publicly benevolent towards the fugitive, he did not the less privately represent to his patrons, senior and junior, the very equivocal character that Philip must be allowed to bear. Like most lawyers, hard upon all who wander from the formal tracks, he unaffectedly regarded Philip’s flight and absence as proofs of a reprobate disposition; and this conduct was greatly aggravated in his eyes by Mr. Sharp’s report, by which it appeared that after his escape Philip had so suddenly, and, as it were, so naturally, taken to such equivocal companionship. Mr. Robert Beaufort, already prejudiced against Philip, viewed matters in the same light as the lawyer; and the story of his supposed predilections reached Arthur’s ears in so distorted a shape, that even he was staggered and revolted:—still Philip was so young—Arthur’s oath to the orphans’ mother so recent—and if thus early inclined to wrong courses, should not every effort be made to lure him back to the straight path? With these views and reasonings, as soon as he was able, Arthur himself visited Mrs. Lacy, and the note from Philip, which the good lady put into his hands, affected him deeply, and confirmed all his previous resolutions. 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 against himself, and therefore evaded the landlady’s curiosity. He wrote the next day the letter we have seen, to Mr. Roger Morton, whose address Catherine had given to him; and by return of post came a letter from the linendraper narrating the flight of Sidney, as it was supposed with his brother. This news so excited Arthur that he insisted on going down to N—— at once, and joining in the search. His father, alarmed for his health, positively refused; and the consequence was an increase of fever, a consultation with the doctors, and a declaration that Mr. Arthur was in that state that it would be dangerous not to let him have his own way, Mr. Beaufort was forced to yield, and with Blackwell and Mr. Sharp accompanied his son to N——. The inquiries, hitherto fruitless, then assumed a more regular and business-like character. By little and little they came, through the aid of Mr. Sharp, upon the right 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 youths at a seaport in one direction; others, who deposed to their having taken the road to an inland town in the other. This had induced Arthur and his father to part company. Mr. Beaufort, accompanied by Roger Morton, went to the seaport; and Arthur, with Mr. Spencer and Mr. Sharp, more fortunate, tracked the fugitives to their retreat. As for Mr. Beaufort, senior, now that his mind was more at ease about his son, he was thoroughly sick of the whole thing; greatly bored by the society of Mr. 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 upon slinking back to London at the first reasonable excuse.

The next morning Mr. Sharp entered betimes Mr. Stubmore’s counting-house. In the yard he caught a glimpse of Philip, and managed to 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 corner of a green curtain that covered the panes, beckoned to the startled Stubmore 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 has got 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; and as long as he likes to stay with me, they as comes after him may get a ducking 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 tells you 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 sensible man. No one can reasonably go for to ask a gentleman to go for to inconvenience hisself. But what do you know of that ‘ere youngster. Had you a carakter with him?”

“What’s that to you?”

“Why, it’s more to yourself, Mr. Stubmore; he is but a lad, and if he goes back to his friends they may take care of him, but he got into a bad set afore he come here. Do you know a good-looking chap with whiskers, who talks of his pheaton, and was riding last night on a brown mare?”

“Y—e—s!” said Mr. Stubmore, growing rather pale, “and I knows the mare, 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 orbs he had invoked, and whistled with that self-hugging delight which men invariably 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 the mare 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 equal rage both with himself and his guest.

“I, sir,” said the visitor, rising with great dignity,—“I, sir, am of the great Bow Street Office, and my name is John Sharp!”

Mr. Stubmore nearly fell off his stool, his eyes rolled in his head, and his 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 is nothing more or less than Dashing Jerry, as has ruined more girls and more tradesmen than any lord in the land. And so I called to give you a bit of caution; for, says I to myself, ‘Mr. Stubmore is a respectable man.’”

“I hope I am, sir,” said the crestfallen horse-dealer; “that was always my 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 I am 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 so green.”

“Well, we must not be hard on the youngster: ‘cause why? he has friends as 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 he don’t go back, he’ll have to get his livelihood without a carakter; and use your influence with him like a man and a Christian, and what’s more, like the father of a family—Mr. Stubmore—with three boys and a babe at the buzzom. You won’t keep him now?”

“Keep him! I have had a precious escape. I’d better go and see after the mare.”

“I doubt if you’ll find her: the Captain caught a sight of me this morning. 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 he walked straight out of the counting-office, satisfied that he had “done the job.”

To snatch his hat—to run to the hotel—to find that Captain Smith had indeed 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—having left with the landlord the amount of his bill in another cheque upon Coutts—was the work of five minutes with Mr. Stubmore. He returned home, panting and purple with indignation and wounded feeling.

“To think that chap, whom I took into my yard like a son, should have connived 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 of Captain Smith.”

“Oh, you did, did you, now he’s gone? ‘sconded off to America, I dare say, by this time. Now look ye, young man; your friends are after you, I won’t say anything agin you; but you go back to them—I wash my hands of you. Quite too much for me. There’s your week, and never let me catch you in my yard agin, that’s all!”

Philip dropped the money which Stubmore had put into his hand. “My friends!—friends have been with you, have they? I thought so—I thank them. 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, and looked doubtful a moment; but Captain de Burgh Smith’s cheque for eighty guineas 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 your ways, and be ruled by your poor dear relatives, whose hearts you are breaking.”

“Captain Smith! Did my relations tell you?”

“Yes—yes—they told me all—that is, they sent to tell me; so you see I’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 betrayed him then, these accursed Beauforts! they circled his steps with schemes to drive him like a deer into the snare of their loathsome charity! The roof was to be taken from his head—the bread from his lips—so that he might fawn at their knees for bounty. “But they shall not break my spirit, nor steal away my curse. No, my dead mother, never!”

As he thus muttered, he passed through a patch of waste land that led to the row of houses in which his lodging was placed. And here a voice called to him, and a hand was laid on his shoulder. He turned, and Arthur Beaufort, who had followed him from the street, stood behind him. Philip did not, at the first glance, recognise his cousin; illness had so altered him, and his dress was so different from that in which he had first and last beheld him. The contrast between the two young men was remarkable. Philip was clad in a rough garb suited to his late calling—a jacket of black velveteen, ill-fitting and ill-fashioned, loose fustian trousers, coarse shoes, his hat set deep over his pent eyebrows, his raven hair long and neglected. He was just at that age when one with strong features and robust frame is at the worst in point of appearance—the sinewy proportions not yet sufficiently fleshed, and seeming inharmonious and undeveloped; precisely in proportion, perhaps, to the symmetry towards which they insensibly mature: the contour of the face sharpened from the roundness of boyhood, and losing its bloom without yet acquiring that relief and shadow which make the expression and dignity of the masculine countenance. Thus accoutred, thus gaunt, and uncouth, stood Morton. Arthur Beaufort, always refined in his appearance, seemed yet more so from the almost feminine delicacy which ill-health threw over his pale complexion and graceful figure; that sort of unconscious elegance which belongs to the dress of the rich when they are young—seen most in minutiae—not observable, perhaps, by themselves-marked forcibly and painfully the distinction of rank between the two. That distinction Beaufort did not feel; but at a glance it was visible to Philip.

The past rushed back on him. The sunny lawn—the gun offered and rejected—the pride of old, much less haughty than the pride of to-day.

“Philip,” said Beaufort, feebly, “they tell me you will not accept any kindness from me or mine. Ah! if you knew how we have sought you!”

“Knew!” cried Philip, savagely, for that unlucky sentence recalled to him his late interview with his employer, and his present destitution. “Knew! And why have you dared to hunt me out, and halloo me down?—why must this insolent tyranny, that assumes the right over these limbs and this free will, betray and expose me and my wretchedness wherever I turn?”

“Your poor mother—” began Beaufort.

“Name her not with your lips—name her not!” cried Philip, growing livid with his emotions. “Talk not of the mercy—the forethought—a Beaufort could show to her and her offspring! I accept it not—I believe it not. Oh, yes! you follow me now with your false kindness; and why? Because your father—your vain, hollow, heartless father—”

“Hold!” said Beaufort, in a tone of such reproach, that it startled the wild heart on which it fell; “it is my father you speak of. Let the son respect the son.”

“No—no—no! I will respect none of your race. I tell you your father fears me. I tell you that my last words to him ring in his ears! My wrongs! Arthur Beaufort, when you are absent I seek to forget them; in your 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 me from it, I would scorn your aid. Aid! The very thought fires my blood and nerves my hand. Aid! Will a Beaufort give me back my birthright—restore my dead mother’s fair name? Minion!—sleek, dainty, luxurious minion!—out of my path! You have my fortune, my station, my rights; I have but poverty, and hate, and disdain. I swear, again and again, that you shall not purchase these from me.”

“But, Philip—Philip,” cried Beaufort, catching his arm; “hear one—hear one who stood by your—”

The sentence that would have saved the outcast from the demons that were darkening and swooping round his soul, died upon the young Protector’s lips. Blinded, maddened, excited, and exasperated, almost out of humanity itself, Philip fiercely—brutally—swung aside the enfeebled form that sought to cling to him, and Beaufort fell at his feet. Morton stopped—glared at him with clenched hands and a smiling lip, sprung over his prostrate form, and bounded to his home.

He slackened his pace as he neared the house, and looked behind; but Beaufort had not followed him. He entered the house, and found Sidney in the room, with a countenance so much more gay than that he had lately worn, that, absorbed as he was in thought and passion, it yet did not fail 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 the naughty 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 dear mamma. Well, and he has promised to take me home with him and give me a pretty pony—as pretty—as pretty—oh, as pretty as it can be got! And he 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, seating himself, 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 that you associate with wicked people—and that you want to keep me shut up here and not let any one be good to me. But I told him I did not believe that—yes, indeed, I told him so.”

And Sidney endeavoured caressingly to withdraw the hands that his brother 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. I will 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 must go.”

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 had turned their backs on the town.