Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - Night and Morning, Complete

“Rouse yourself!—you might have had an ugly tumble.” Philip muttered something inaudible, between sleeping and waking, and turned his dark eyes 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, Philip had again fallen asleep. But this time, as if he had felt and resented the rebuff he had received, he inclined his head away from his neighbour, 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 weed from his pipe, which he placed gently in his pocket. “Perhaps the smoke was too much for him—he seems ill and thin,” and he took the boy’s long lean fingers in his own. “His cheek is hollow!—what do I know but it may be with fasting? Pooh! I was a brute. Hush, coachee, hush! don’t talk so loud, and be d–d to you—he will certainly be off!” and the man 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 sallow cheek and long hair were now tenderly lapped on the soliloquist’s bosom. “Poor wretch! he smiles; perhaps he is thinking of home, and the butterflies 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; he may 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, in its former part), and drew the lappets closely round the slender frame of the sleeper, exposing his own sturdy breast—for he wore no waistcoat—to the sharpening air. Thus cradled on that stranger’s bosom, wrapped from the present and dreaming perhaps—while a heart scorched by fierce and terrible struggles with life and sin made his pillow—of a fair and unsullied future, slept the fatherless and friendless boy.

Amidst the glare of lamps—the rattle of carriages—the lumbering of carts and waggons—the throng, the clamour, the reeking life and dissonant roar of London, Philip woke from his happy sleep. He woke uncertain and confused, and saw strange eyes bent on him kindly and watchfully.

“You have slept well, my lad!” said the passenger, in the deep ringing voice which made itself heard above all the noises around.

“And you have suffered me to incommode you thus!” said Philip, with more gratitude in his voice and look than, perhaps, he had shown to any one out of his own family since his birth.

“You have had but little kindness shown you, my poor boy, if you think so 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 man slipped a sovereign into Philip’s hand.

“I don’t want money. Though I thank you heartily all the same; it would be a shame at my age to be a beggar. But can you think of an employment where I can make something?—what they offer me is so trifling. I have a mother and a brother—a mere child, sir—at home.”

“Employment!” repeated the man; and as the coach now stopped at the tavern door, the light of the lamp fell full on his marked face. “Ay, I know of employment; but you should apply to some one else to obtain it for 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 rude and blunt curiosity.

“Me!” returned the passenger, with his deep laugh. “Oh! I know some people 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 to you!”

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

Philip sighed. “He has friends,” he muttered to himself; and, paying his fare, 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 at Mr. Plaskwith’s, and Mrs. Morton’s health was so decidedly worse, that she resolved to know her fate, and consult a physician. The oracle was at first ambiguous in its response. But when Mrs. Morton said firmly, “I have duties to perform; upon your candid answer rest my Plans with respect to my children—left, if I die suddenly, destitute in the world,”—the doctor looked hard in her face, saw its calm resolution, and replied frankly:

“Lose no time, then, in arranging your plans; life is uncertain with all—with you, especially; you may live some time yet, but your constitution 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, and smiled up in his face.

“And that child, sir?” said the mother, wistfully, forgetting the dread fiat pronounced against herself,—“he is so delicate!”

“Not at all, ma’am,—a very fine little fellow;” and the doctor patted the boy’s head, and abruptly vanished.

“Ah! mamma, I wish you would ride—I wish you would take the white pony!”

“Poor boy! poor boy!” muttered the mother; “I must not be selfish.” She covered her face with her hands, and began to think!

Could she, thus doomed, resolve on declining her brother’s offer? Did it not, 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? Would he be as kind to the boy as now when she could commend him with her own lips to his care—when she could place that precious charge into his hands? With these thoughts, she formed one of those resolutions which have all the strength of self-sacrificing love. She would put the boy from her, her last solace and comfort; she would die alone,—alone!

One evening, the shop closed and the business done, Mr. Roger Morton and his family sat in that snug and comfortable retreat which generally backs the warerooms of an English tradesman. Happy often, and indeed happy, is that little sanctuary, near to, and yet remote from, the toil and care of the busy mart from which its homely ease and peaceful security are drawn. Glance down those rows of silenced shops in a town at night, and picture the glad and quiet groups gathered within, over that nightly and social meal which custom has banished from the more indolent tribes who neither toil nor spin. Placed between the two extremes of life, the tradesman, who ventures not beyond his means, and sees clear books and sure gains, with enough of occupation to give healthful excitement, enough of fortune to greet each new-born child without a sigh, might be envied alike by those above and those below his state—if the restless heart of men ever envied Content!

“And so the little boy is not to come?” said Mrs. Morton as she crossed her knife and fork, and pushed away her plate, in token that she had done supper.

“I don’t know.—Children, go to bed; there—there—that will do. Good night!—Catherine does not say either yes or no. She wants time to consider.”