Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - Night and Morning, Complete

The happy pair sank into silence, only broken by sundry “How d’ye dos?” and “Good mornings!” interchanged with their friends, till they arrived at the inn.

“Let us go up quickly,” said Mrs. Morton.

And quiet—quiet to gloom, did the inn, so noisy overnight, seem by morning. The shutters partially closed to keep out the sun—the taproom deserted—the passage smelling of stale smoke—an elderly dog, lazily snapping at the flies, at the foot of the staircase—not a soul to be seen at the bar. The husband and wife, glad to be unobserved, crept on tiptoe up the stairs, and entered Catherine’s apartment.

Catherine was seated on the sofa, and Sidney-dressed, like Mrs. Roger Morton, to look his prettiest, nor yet aware of the change that awaited his destiny, but pleased at the excitement of seeing new friends, as handsome children sure of praise and petting usually are—stood by her side.

“My wife—Catherine,” said Mr. Morton. Catherine rose eagerly, and gazed searchingly on her sister-in-law’s hard face. She swallowed the convulsive rising at her heart as she gazed, and stretched out both her hands, not so much to welcome as to plead. Mrs. Roger Morton drew herself up, and then dropped a courtesy—it was an involuntary piece of good breeding—it was extorted by the noble countenance, the matronly mien of Catherine, different from what she had anticipated—she dropped the courtesy, and Catherine took her hand and pressed it.

“This is my son;” she turned away her head. Sidney advanced towards his protectress 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 took Sidney on his lap, and stroked down his golden hair.

This displeased Mrs. Roger Morton, but she sat herself down, and said it was “very warm.”

“Now go to that lady, my dear,” said Mr. Morton. “Is she not a very nice lady?—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 so with other folk’s children: a child either removes all constraint from a 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 confession made them friends at once, she drew a chair close to her sister-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 the door—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-like enough. “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 very respectable, 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 a great 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 she had originally meant to have all the importance of giving herself in her most proper and patronising manner, Mrs. Morton twisted her fingers into the boy’s hand, and, opening the door that communicated with the bedroom, left the brother and sister alone. And then Mr. Morton, with more tact and delicacy than might have been expected from him, began to soften to Catherine the hardship of the separation he urged. He dwelt principally on what was best for the child. Boys were so brutal in their intercourse with each other. He had even thought it better represent Philip to Mr. Plaskwith as a more distant relation than he was; and he begged, 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—have companions of his own age—if his birth were known, he would be exposed to many mortifications—so much better, and so very easy, to bring him up as the lawful, that is the legal, offspring of some distant relation.

“And,” cried poor Catherine, clasping her bands, “when I am dead, is he never to know that I was his mother?” The anguish of that question thrilled the heart of the listener. He was affected below all the surface that worldly thoughts and habits had laid, stratum by stratum, over the humanities within. He threw his arms round Catherine, and strained her to his breast:

“No, my sister—my poor sister—he shall know it when he is old enough to understand, and to keep his own secret. He shall know, too, how we all loved and prized you once; how young you were, how flattered and tempted; how you were deceived, for I know that—on my soul I do—I know it was not your fault. He shall know, too, how fondly you loved your child, and how you sacrificed, for his sake, the very comfort of being near him. He shall know it all—all—”

“My brother—my brother, I resign him—I am content. God reward you. I will go—go quickly. I know you will take care of him now.”

“And you see,” resumed Mr. Morton, re-settling himself, and wiping his eyes, “it is best, between you and me, that Mrs. Morton should have her own way in this. She is a very good woman—very; but it’s prudent not to vex 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 his bed 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? Next to Martha’s. Martha is our parlourmaid—very good-natured girl, and fond of children.”

Mrs. Morton looked grave, thought a moment, and said, “Yes, he can have that 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 the despair would only have been felt by the acute ear of sympathy,—“going away for a little time: but this gentleman and lady will be very—very kind 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 a loud cry, broke from his aunt, rushed to his mother’s breast, and hid his face there, sobbing bitterly.

“I am afraid he has been very much spoiled,” whispered Mrs. Roger Morton. “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 with you.”

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 the parlour-maid. Mrs. Roger herself had given him a large slice of bread and 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 was full, and his eyes, swimming with tears, were turned at every moment to the door. But he did not show the violent grief that might have been expected. His very desolation, amidst the unfamiliar faces, awed and chilled him. But when Martha took him to bed, and undressed him, and he knelt down to say his prayers, and came to the words, “Pray God bless dear mamma, and make me a good child,” his heart could contain its load no longer, and he sobbed with a passion that alarmed the good-natured servant. She had been used, however, to children, and she soothed and caressed him, and told him of all the nice things he would do, and the nice toys he would have; and at last, silenced, if not convinced, his eyes closed, and, the tears yet wet on their lashes, he fell asleep.