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 the orphans as in the last. They avoided, as before, the main roads, and their way lay through landscapes that might have charmed a Gainsborough’s eye. Autumn scattered its last hues of gold over the various foliage, and the poppy glowed from the hedges, and the wild convolvuli, here and there, still gleamed on the wayside with a parting smile.
At times, over the sloping stubbles, broke the sound of the sportsman’s gun; and ever and anon, by stream and sedge, they startled the shy wild fowl, just come from the far lands, nor yet settled in the new haunts too soon to be invaded.
But there was no longer in the travellers the same hearts that had made light of hardship and fatigue. Sidney was no longer flying from a harsh master, and his step was not elastic with the energy of fear that looked behind, and of hope that smiled before. He was going a toilsome, weary journey, he knew not why nor whither; just, too, when he had made a friend, whose soothing words haunted his childish fancy. He was displeased with Philip, and in sullen and silent thoughtfulness slowly plodded behind him; and Morton himself was gloomy, and knew not where in the world to seek a future.
They arrived at dusk at a small inn, not so far distant from the town they had left as Morton could have wished; but the days were shorter than in their first flight.
They were shown into a small sanded parlour, which Sidney eyed with great disgust; nor did he seem more pleased with the hacked and jagged leg of cold mutton, which was all that the hostess set before them for supper. Philip in vain endeavoured to cheer him up, and ate to set him the example. He felt relieved when, under the auspices of a good-looking, good-natured chambermaid, Sidney retired to rest, and he was left in the parlour to his own meditations. Hitherto it had been a happy thing for Morton that he had had some one dependent on him; that feeling had given him perseverance, patience, fortitude, and hope. But now, dispirited and sad, he felt rather the horror of being responsible for a human life, without seeing the means to discharge the trust. It was clear, even to his experience, that he was not likely to find another employer as facile as Mr. Stubmore; and wherever he went, he felt as if his Destiny stalked at his back. He took out his little fortune and spread it on the table, counting it over and over; it had remained pretty stationary since his service with Mr. Stubmore, for Sidney had swallowed up the wages of his hire. While thus employed, the door opened, and the chambermaid, showing in a gentleman, said, “We have no 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 excuse smoking, sir?”
Philip looked up from his hoard, and Captain de Burgh Smith stood before him.
“Ah!” said the latter, “well met!” And closing the door, he took off his great-coat, seated himself near Philip, and bent both his eyes with considerable wistfulness on the neat rows into which Philip’s bank-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 you are surprised to see me here without my pheaton?”
“I wish I had never seen you at all,” replied Philip, uncourteously, and restoring his money to his pocket; “your fraud upon Mr. Stubmore, and your 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 off as 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 noice girl we saw in the coach; ‘gad, I served her spouse that is to be a praetty trick! Borrowed his money under pretence of investing it in the New 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 the beverage, 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 his pillow. He took care to put his money under his head, and to lock his door.
The brothers started at daybreak; Sidney was even more discontented than on the previous day. The weather was hot and oppressive; they rested for some 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 a hunting district, where he hoped his equestrian capacities might again befriend him; and their path now lay through a chain of vast dreary commons, which gave them at least the advantage to skirt the road-side unobserved. But, somehow or other, either Philip had been misinformed as to 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 human habitation was discernible.
Sidney, footsore and querulous, began to weep, and declare that he could stir no further; and while Philip, whose iron frame defied fatigue, compassionately paused to rest his brother, a low roll of thunder broke upon the gloomy air. “There will be a storm,” said he, anxiously. “Come on—pray, Sidney, come on.”
“It is so cruel in you, brother Philip,” replied Sidney, sobbing. “I wish I had never—never gone with you.”
A flash of lightning, that illuminated the whole heavens, lingered round Sidney’s pale face as he spoke; and Philip threw himself instinctively on the child, as if to protect him even from the wrath of the unshelterable flame. Sidney, hushed and terrified, clung to his brother’s breast; after a pause, he silently consented to resume their journey. But now the storm came nearer and nearer to the wanderers. The darkness grew rapidly more intense, save when the lightning lit up heaven and earth alike with intolerable lustre. And when at length the rain began to fall in merciless and drenching torrents, even Philip’s brave heart failed him. How could he ask Sidney to proceed, when they could scarcely see an inch before them?—all that could now be done was to gain the high-road, and hope for some passing conveyance. With fits and starts, and by the glare of the lightning, they obtained their object; and stood at last on the great broad thoroughfare, along which, since the day when the Roman carved it from the waste, Misery hath plodded, 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 hear Sidney’s voice wail and moan. But that voice grew more languid and faint—it ceased—Sidney’s weight hung heavy—heavier on the fostering arm.
“For Heaven’s sake, speak!—speak, Sidney!—only one word—I will carry you in my arms!”
“I think I am dying,” replied Sidney, in a low murmur; “I am so tired and worn out I can go no further—I must lie here.” And he sank at once upon the reeking grass beside the road. At this time the rain gradually relaxed, the clouds broke away—a grey light succeeded to the darkness—the lightning was more distant; and the thunder rolled onward in its awful path. Kneeling on the ground, Philip supported his brother in his arms, and cast his pleading eyes upward to the softening terrors of the sky. A star, a solitary star—broke out for one moment, as if to smile comfort upon him, and then vanished. But lo! in the distance there suddenly gleamed a red, steady light, like that in some solitary window; it was no will-o’-the-wisp, it was too stationary—human shelter was then nearer than he had thought for. He pointed to the light, and whispered, “Rouse yourself, one struggle more—it cannot be far off.”
“It is impossible—I cannot stir,” answered Sidney: and a sudden flash of lightning showed his countenance, ghastly, as if with the damps of Death. What could the brother do?—stay there, and see the boy perish before 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 greater terror than the first. Was that a step that he heard across the road? He held 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, thought to recognise the features of Captain de Burgh Smith. The Captain, whose eyes 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 him as 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 with him—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 shall be back ere you think me gone.”
He sprang from the road, and plunged through the heath, the furze, the rank glistening pools, straight towards the light—as the swimmer towards the shore.
The captain, though a rogue, was human; and when life—an innocent life—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’s throat and then, by way of company, down his own. The cordial revived the 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, a person of high spirit and not without pride. He rose from the ground with bitter, resentful feelings and a blushing cheek, and went his way to the hotel. Here he found Mr. Spencer just returned from his visit to Sidney. Enchanted with the soft and endearing manners of his lost Catherine’s son, and deeply affected with the resemblance the child bore to the mother as he had seen her last at the gay and rosy age of fair sixteen, his description of the younger brother drew Beaufort’s indignant thoughts from the elder. He cordially concurred with Mr. Spencer in the wish to save one so gentle from the domination of one so fierce; and this, after all, was the child Catherine had most strongly commended to him. She had said little of the elder; perhaps she had been aware of his ungracious and untractable nature, and, as it seemed to Arthur Beaufort, his predilections for a coarse and low career.
“Yes,” said he, “this boy, then, shall console me for the perverse brutality of the other. He shall indeed drink of my cup, and eat of my bread, and be to me as a brother.”
“What!” said Mr. Spencer, changing countenance, “you do not intend to take 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 charge devolves on me—it is my right. I am the orphan’s relation—his mother consigned 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 Sidney as an inmate of his cheerless home, a tender relic of his early love. From that moment he began to contemplate the possibility of securing Sidney to himself, unknown to Beaufort.
The plans both of Arthur and Spencer were interrupted by the sudden retreat of the brothers. They determined to depart different ways in search of them. Spencer, as the more helpless of the two, obtained the aid of Mr. Sharp; Beaufort departed with the lawyer.
Two travellers, in a hired barouche, were slowly dragged by a pair of jaded posters along the commons I have just described.
“I think,” said one, “that the storm is very much abated; heigho! what an 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 dreadful vagabond.”
“You see, sir, quite hand in glove with Dashing Jerry; met in the same inn last night—preconcerted, you may be quite shure. It would be the best day’s job I have done this many a day to save that ‘ere little fellow from being corrupted. You sees he is just of a size to be useful to these bad karakters. If they took to burglary, he would be a treasure to them—slip him through a pane of glass like a ferret, sir.”
“Don’t talk of it, Sharp,” said Mr. Spencer, with a groan; “and recollect, 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 most like 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 barouche stopped—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 never reach 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’ll get out.” So saying, he opened the door, jumped into the road, and presently reappeared with the lost and welcome Sidney in his arms. “Ben’t this the boy?” he whispered to Mr. Spencer; and, taking the lamp from 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 hour or two,” cried the Captain.
“We! Who’s we?” said Sharp, gruffly. “Why, myself and the choild’s brother.”
“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 give my compliments to your ‘sociate, and say, if he prosecutes this here hurchin any more, we’ll settle his bizness for him; and so take a hint and make yourself scarce, old boy!”
With that Mr. Sharp jumped into the barouche, and bade the postboy drive on 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 hospitable farm to which the light had conducted him. The spot where he had left Sidney, and which he knew by a neighbouring milestone, was vacant; he shouted an alarm, and the Captain answered from the distance of some threescore 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;” cried Philip, 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 youth knocked at the door of Mr. Robert Beaufort. The porter slowly presented himself.
“Is your master at home? I must see him instantly.”
“That’s more than you can, my man; my master does not see the like of you at this time of night,” replied the porter, eying the ragged apparition before him with great disdain.
“See me he must and shall,” replied the young man; and as the porter blocked 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’s a 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 strange grim figure I have described, advancing towards her. “Who are you?” said she; “and what do you want?”
“I am Philip Morton. Who are you?”
“My husband,” said Mrs. Beaufort, shrinking into the parlour, while Morton followed her and closed the door, “my husband, Mr. Beaufort, is not at home.”
“You are Mrs. Beaufort, then! Well, you can understand me. I want my brother. He has been basely reft from me. Tell me where he is, and I will 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 know nothing of your brother, Mr. Morton,” cried Mrs. Beaufort, surprised and alarmed. “Arthur, whom we expect every day, writes us word that all search for him has been in vain.”
“Ha! you admit the search?” cried Morton, rising and clenching his hands. “And who else but you or yours would have parted brother and brother? Answer me where he is. No subterfuge, madam: I am desperate!”
Mrs. Beaufort, though a woman of that worldly coldness and indifference which, on ordinary occasions, supply the place of courage, was extremely terrified by the tone and mien of her rude guest. She laid her hand on the bell; but Morton seized her arm, and, holding it sternly, said, while his dark eyes shot fire through the glimmering room, “I will not stir hence till you have told me. Will you reject my gratitude, my blessing? Beware! Again, where have you hid my brother?”
At that instant the door opened, and Mr. Robert Beaufort entered. The lady, with a shriek of joy, wrenched herself from Philip’s grasp, and flew 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’s obdurate perverseness, vile associates, and unredeemable character, was roused from his usual timidity by the appeal of his wife.
“Insolent reprobate!” he said, advancing to Philip; “after all the absurd goodness of my son and myself; after rejecting all our offers, and persisting in your miserable and vicious conduct, how dare you presume to force yourself into this house? Begone, or I will send for the constables to remove YOU!
“Man, man,” cried Philip, restraining the fury that shook him from head to foot, “I care not for your threats—I scarcely hear your abuse—your son, 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 of justice, of pity. I implore you—on my knees I implore you—yes, I,—I implore you, Robert Beaufort, to have mercy on your brother’s son. Where is Sidney?” Like all mean and cowardly men, Robert Beaufort was rather encouraged than softened by Philip’s abrupt humility.
“I know nothing of your brother; and if this is not all some villainous trick—which it may be—I am heartily rejoiced that he, poor child! is rescued from the contamination of such a companion,” answered Beaufort.
“I am at your feet still; again, for the last time, clinging to you a suppliant: 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 hitherto unobserved—one who, terrified by the scene she had witnessed but could not comprehend, had slunk into a dark corner of the room,—now came from her retreat. And a child’s soft voice was heard, saying:
“Do not strike him, papa!—let him have his brother!” Mr. Beaufort’s arm fell to his side: kneeling before him, and by the outcast’s side, was his own young daughter; she had crept into the room unobserved, when her father entered. Through the dim shadows, relieved only by the red and fitful gleam of the fire, he saw her fair meek face looking up wistfully at his own, with tears of excitement, and perhaps of pity—for children have a quick insight into the reality of grief in those not far removed from their own years—glistening in her soft eyes. Philip looked round bewildered, 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 one orphan from the other!”
“Take away that child, Mrs. Beaufort,” cried Robert, angrily. “Will you let her disgrace herself thus? And you, sir, begone from this roof; and when you can approach me with due respect, I will give you, as I said I would, the means to get an honest living.”
Philip rose; Mrs. Beaufort had already led away her daughter, and she took that opportunity of sending in the servants: their forms filled up the doorway.
“Will you go?” continued Mr. Beaufort, more and more emboldened, as he saw the menials at hand, “or shall they expel you?”
“It is enough, sir,” said Philip, with a sudden calm and dignity that surprised and almost awed his uncle. “My father, if the dead yet watch over the living, has seen and heard you. There will come a day for justice. Out of my path, hirelings!”
He waved his arm, and the menials shrank back at his tread, stalked across the inhospitable hall, and vanished. When he had gained the street, he turned and looked up at the house. His dark and hollow eyes, gleaming through the long and raven hair that fell profusely over his face, had in them an expression of menace almost preternatural, from its settled calmness; the wild and untutored majesty which, though rags and squalor, never deserted his form, as it never does the forms of men in whom the will is strong and the sense of injustice deep; the outstretched arm the haggard, but noble features; the bloomless and scathed youth, all gave to his features and his stature an aspect awful in its sinister and voiceless wrath. There he stood a moment, like one to whom woe and wrong have given a Prophet’s power, guiding the eye of the unforgetful Fate to the roof of the Oppressor. Then slowly, and with a half smile, he turned away, and strode through the streets till he arrived at one of the narrow lanes that intersect the more equivocal quarters of the huge city. He stopped at the private entrance of a small pawnbroker’s shop; the door was opened by a slipshod boy; he ascended the dingy stairs till he came to the second floor; and there, in a small back room, he found Captain de Burgh Smith, seated before a table with a couple of candles on it, smoking a cigar, and playing at cards by himself.
“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 do something for you that I should not loike to do for myself. I told you that I knew the Bow Street runner who was in the barouche. I will find him out—Heaven knows that is easily done; and, if you can pay well, you will get your news.”
“You shall have all I possess, if you restore my brother. See what it is, one hundred pounds—it was his fortune. It is useless to me without him. There, take fifty now, and if—”
Philip stopped, for his voice trembled too much to allow him farther speech. 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, and he willingly encouraged the suspicion that Sidney was under the care of the Beauforts. He promised, however, for the sake of ten guineas, to procure Philip a letter from Sidney himself. This was all he would undertake.
Philip was satisfied. At the end of another week, Mr. Sharp transmitted to the Captain a letter, which he, in his turn, gave to Philip. It ran thus, in Sidney’s own sprawling hand:
“DEAR BROTHER PHILIP,—I am told you wish to know how I am, and therfore take up my pen, and assure you that I write all out of my own head. I am very Comfortable and happy—much more so than I have been since poor deir mama died; so I beg you won’t vex yourself about me: and pray don’t try 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 leave off your Bad ways; for I am sure, as every one says, I don’t know what would have become of me if I had staid with you. Mr. [the Mr. half scratched 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 Good boy, to Arthur Beaufort, and ask his pardon for the past, and then Arthur will be very kind to you. I send you a great Big sum of L20., and the 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, and always pray that God may open your eyes. I have such a Nice Pony, with such 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 all his love! There was the letter, evidently undictated, with its errors of orthography, and in the child’s rough scrawl; the serpent’s tooth pierced to the heart, and left there its most lasting venom.
“I have done with him for ever,” said Philip, brushing away the bitter tears. “I will molest him no farther; I care no more to pierce this mystery. Better for him as it is—he is happy! Well, well, and I—I will never care for a human being again.”
He bowed his head over his hands; and when he rose, his heart felt to him like stone. It seemed as if Conscience herself had fled from his soul on the wings of departed Love.