afflictions; but, whatever you say, I cannot think the late Mr. Beaufort acted like a conscientious man, in forgetting to make his will, and leaving his little 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 upon me, who have a large family of my own, and get my livelihood by honest industry, to have a rich gentleman’s children to maintain. As for your story about the private marriage, it may or not be. Perhaps you were taken 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 you say on the matter the better. It all comes to the same thing. People are not bound to believe what can’t be proved. And even if what you say is true, you are more to be blamed than pitied for holding your tongue so many years, and discrediting an honest family, as ours has always been considered. I am sure my wife would not have thought of such a thing for the finest gentleman that ever wore shoe-leather. However, I don’t want to hurt your feelings; and I am sure I am ready to do whatever is right and proper. You cannot expect that I should ask you to my house. My wife, you know, is a very religious woman—what is called evangelical; but that’s neither here nor there: I deal with all people, churchmen and dissenters—even Jews,—and don’t trouble my head much about differences in opinion. I dare say there are many ways to heaven; as I said, the other day, to Mr. Thwaites, our member. But it is right to say my wife will not hear of your coming here; and, indeed, it might do harm to my business, for there are several elderly single gentlewomen, who buy flannel for the poor at my shop, and they are very particular; as they ought to be, indeed: for morals are very strict in this county, and particularly in this town, where we certainly do pay very high church-rates. Not that I grumble; for, though I am as liberal as any man, I am for an established church; as I ought to be, since the dean is my best customer. With regard to yourself I inclose you L10., and you will let me know when it is gone, and I will see what more I can do. You say you are very poorly, which I am sorry to hear; but you must pluck up your spirits, and take in plain work; and I really think you ought to apply to Mr. Robert Beaufort. He bears a high character; and notwithstanding your lawsuit, which I cannot approve of, I dare say he might allow you L40. or L50. a-year, if you apply properly, which would be 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 punished for no fault of their own; and my wife, who, though strict, is a good-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. I can get him a very good thing in a light genteel way. My wife’s brother, Mr. Christopher Plaskwith, is a bookseller and stationer with pretty practice, in R–. He is a clever man, and has a newspaper, which he kindly sends me every week; and, though it is not my county, it has some very sensible views and is often noticed in the London papers, as ‘our provincial contemporary.’—Mr. Plaskwith owes me some money, which I advanced him when he set up the paper; and he has several times most honestly offered to pay me, in shares in the said paper. But, as the thing might break, and I don’t like concerns I don’t understand, I have not taken advantage of his very handsome proposals. Now, Plaskwith wrote me word, two days ago, that he wanted a genteel, smart lad, as assistant and ‘prentice, and offered to take my eldest boy; but we can’t spare him. I write to Christopher by this post; and if your youth will run down on the top of the coach, and inquire for Mr. Plaskwith—the fare is trifling—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 the premium against his debt to me; so you will have nothing to pay. ‘Tis a very pretty business; and the lad’s education will get him on; so that’s off your mind. As to the little chap, I’ll take him at once. You say he is a pretty boy; and a pretty boy is always a help in a linendraper’s shop. He shall share and share with my own young folks; and Mrs. Morton will 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 can easily break him into, he is settled for life. So now you have got rid of two mouths to feed, and have nobody to think of but yourself, which must be a great comfort. Don’t forget to write to Mr. Beaufort; and if he don’t do something for you he’s not the gentleman I take him for; but you are my own flesh and blood, and sha’n’t starve; for, though I don’t think it right in a man in business to encourage what’s wrong, yet, when a person’s down in the world, I think an ounce of help is better than a pound of preaching. My wife thinks otherwise, and wants to send you some tracts; but every body can’t be as correct as some folks. However, as I said before, that’s neither here nor there. Let me know when your boy comes 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 more comfortable; 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, and that you had better mend up all his linen before you send him.”
As Catherine finished this epistle, she lifted her eyes and beheld Philip. He had entered noiselessly, and he remained silent, leaning against the wall, and watching the face of his mother, which crimsoned with painful humiliation while she read. Philip was not now the trim and dainty stripling first introduced to the reader. He had outgrown his faded suit of funereal mourning; his long-neglected hair hung elf-like and matted down his cheeks; there was a gloomy look in his bright dark eyes. Poverty never betrays itself more than in the features and form of Pride. It was evident that his spirit endured, rather than accommodated itself to, his fallen state; and, notwithstanding his soiled and threadbare garments, and a haggardness that ill becomes the years of palmy youth, there was about his whole mien and person a wild and savage grandeur more impressive than his former ruffling arrogance of manner.
“Well, mother,” said he, with a strange mixture of sternness in his countenance and pity in his voice; “well, mother, and what says your brother?”
“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 to decide on.”
Mrs. Morton was naturally a woman of high courage and spirit, but sickness and grief had worn down both; and though Philip was but sixteen, there is something in the very nature of woman—especially in trouble—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 the epistle.
“Yes, but nothing is to be done; I cannot, cannot send poor Sidney to—to—” and Mrs. Morton sobbed.
“No, my dear, dear mother, no; it would be terrible, indeed, to part you and him. But this bookseller—Plaskwith—perhaps I shall be able to support you both.”
“Why, you do not think, Philip, of being an apprentice!—you, who have been so brought up—you, who are so proud!”
“Mother, I would sweep the crossings for your sake! Mother, for your sake I would go to my uncle Beaufort with my hat in my hand, for halfpence. Mother, I am not proud—I would be honest, if I can—but when I see you pining away, and so changed, the devil comes into me, and I often shudder lest I should commit some crime—what, I don’t know!”
“Come here, Philip—my own Philip—my son, my hope, my firstborn!”—and the 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 laid his burning temples on her bosom, and nestled himself to her, as he had been wont to do, after some stormy paroxysm of his passionate and wayward infancy. So there they remained—their lips silent, their hearts speaking to each other—each from each taking strange succour and holy strength—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 she placed her purse in his hand, from which he reluctantly selected
