Night and Morning, Complete

“Yes!” he repeated to himself, “the limb pains me still. But he died!—shot as a man would shoot a jay or a polecat!

“I have the newspaper still in that drawer. He died an outcast—a felon—a murderer! And I blasted his name—and I seduced his mistress—and I—am John Lord Lilburne!”

About ten o’clock, some half-a-dozen of those gay lovers of London, who, like Lilburne, remain faithful to its charms when more vulgar worshippers desert its sunburnt streets—mostly single men—mostly men of middle age—dropped in. And soon after came three or four high-born foreigners, who had followed into England the exile of the unfortunate Charles X. Their looks, at once proud and sad—their moustaches curled downward—their beards permitted to grow—made at first a strong contrast with the smooth gay Englishmen. But Lilburne, who was fond of French society, and who, when he pleased, could be courteous and agreeable, soon placed the exiles at their ease; and, in the excitement of high play, all differences of mood and humour speedily vanished. Morning was in the skies before they sat down to supper.

“You have been very fortunate to-night, milord,” said one of the Frenchmen, with an envious tone of congratulation.

“But, indeed,” said another, who, having been several times his host’s partner, had won largely, “you are the finest player, milord, I ever encountered.”

“Always excepting Monsieur Deschapelles and—,” replied Lilburne, indifferently. And, turning the conversation, he asked one of the guests why he had not introduced him to a French officer of merit and distinction; “With whom,” said Lord Lilburne, “I understand that you are intimate, and of whom I hear your countrymen very often speak.”

“You mean De Vaudemont. Poor fellow!” said a middle-aged Frenchman, of a graver appearance than the rest.

“But why ‘poor fellow!’ Monsieur de Liancourt?”

“He was rising so high before the revolution. There was not a braver officer in the army. But he is but a soldier of fortune, and his career is closed.”

“Till the Bourbons return,” said another Carlist, playing with his moustache.

“You will really honour me much by introducing me to him,” said Lord Lilburne. “De Vaudemont—it is a good name,—perhaps, too, he plays at whist.”

“But,” observed one of the Frenchmen, “I am by no means sure that he has the best right in the world to the name. ‘Tis a strange story.”

“May I hear it?” asked the host.

“Certainly. It is briefly this: There was an old Vicomte de Vaudemont about Paris; of good birth, but extremely poor—a mauvais sujet. He had already had two wives, and run through their fortunes. Being old and ugly, and men who survive two wives having a bad reputation among marriageable ladies at Paris, he found it difficult to get a third. Despairing of the noblesse he went among the bourgeoisie with that hope. His family were kept in perpetual fear of a ridiculous mesalliance. Among these relations was Madame de Merville, whom you may have heard of.”

“Madame de Merville! Ah, yes! Handsome, was she not?”

“It is true. Madame de Merville, whose failing was pride, was known more than once to have bought off the matrimonial inclinations of the amorous vicomte. Suddenly there appeared in her circles a very handsome young man. He was presented formally to her friends as the son of the Vicomte de Vaudemont by his second marriage with an English lady, brought up in England, and now for the first time publicly acknowledged. Some scandal was circulated—”

“Sir,” interrupted Monsieur de Liancourt, very gravely, “the scandal was such as all honourable men must stigmatise and despise—it was only to be traced to some lying lackey—a scandal that the young man was already the lover of a woman of stainless reputation the very first day that he entered Paris! I answer for the falsity of that report. But that report I own was one that decided not only Madame de Merville, who was a sensitive—too sensitive a person, but my friend young Vaudemont, to a marriage, from the pecuniary advantages of which he was too high-spirited not to shrink.”

“Well,” said Lord Lilburne, “then this young De Vaudemont married Madame de Merville?”

“No,” said Liancourt somewhat sadly, “it was not so decreed; for Vaudemont, with a feeling which belongs to a gentleman, and which I honour, while deeply and gratefully attached to Madame de Merville, desired that he might first win for himself some honourable distinction before he claimed a hand to which men of fortunes so much higher had aspired in vain. I am not ashamed,” he added, after a slight pause, “to say that I had been one of the rejected suitors, and that I still revere the memory of Eugenie de Merville. The young man, therefore, was to have entered my regiment. Before, however, he had joined it, and while yet in the full flush of a young man’s love for a woman formed to excite the strongest attachment, she—she–” The Frenchman’s voice trembled, and he resumed with affected composure: “Madame de Merville, who had the best and kindest heart that ever beat in a human breast, learned one day that there was a poor widow in the garret of the hotel she inhabited who was dangerously ill—without medicine and without food—having lost her only friend and supporter in her husband some time before. In the impulse of the moment, Madame de Merville herself attended this widow—caught the fever that preyed upon her—was confined to her bed ten days—and died as she had lived, in serving others and forgetting self.—And so much, sir, for the scandal you spoke of!”

“A warning,” observed Lord Lilburne, “against trifling with one’s health by that vanity of parading a kind heart, which is called charity. If charity, mon cher, begins at home, it is in the drawing-room, not the garret!”

The Frenchman looked at his host in some disdain, bit his lip, and was silent.

“But still,” resumed Lord Lilburne, “still it is so probable that your old vicomte had a son; and I can so perfectly understand why he did not wish to be embarrassed with him as long as he could help it, that I do not understand why there should be any doubt of the younger De Vaudemont’s parentage.”

“Because,” said the Frenchman who had first commenced the narrative,—“because the young man refused to take the legal steps to proclaim his birth and naturalise himself a Frenchman; because, no sooner was Madame de Merville dead than he forsook the father he had so newly discovered—forsook France, and entered with some other officers, under the brave, &m– in the service of one of the native princes of India.”

“But perhaps he was poor,” observed Lord Lilburne. “A father is a very good thing, and a country is a very good thing, but still a man must have money; and if your father does not do much for you, somehow or other, your country generally follows his example.”

“My lord,” said Liancourt, “my friend here has forgotten to say that Madame de Merville had by deed of gift; (though unknown to her lover), before her death, made over to young Vaudemont the bulk of her fortune; and that, when he was informed of this donation after her decease, and sufficiently recovered from the stupor of his grief, he summoned her relations round him, declared that her memory was too dear to him for wealth to console him for her loss, and reserving to himself but a modest and bare sufficiency for the common necessaries of a gentleman, he divided the rest amongst them, and repaired to the East; not only to conquer his sorrow by the novelty and stir of an exciting life, but to carve out with his own hand the reputation of an honourable and brave man. My friend remembered the scandal long buried—he forgot the generous action.”

“Your friend, you see, my dear Monsieur de Liancourt,” remarked Lilburne, “is more a man of the world than you are!”

“And I was just going to observe,” said the friend thus referred to, “that that very action seemed to confirm the rumour that there had been some little manoeuvring as to this unexpected addition to the name of De Vaudemont; for, if himself related to Madame de Merville, why have such scruples to receive her gift?”

“A very shrewd remark,” said Lord Lilburne, looking with some respect at the speaker; “and I own that it is a very unaccountable proceeding, and one of which I don’t think you or I would ever have been guilty. Well, and the old Vicomte?”

“Did not live long!” said the Frenchman, evidently gratified by his host’s compliment, while Liancourt threw himself back in his chair in grave displeasure. “The young man remained some years in India, and when he returned to Paris, our friend here, Monsieur de Liancourt (then in favour with Charles X.), and Madame de Merville’s relations took him up. He had already acquired a reputation in this foreign service, and he obtained a place at the court, and a commission in the king’s guards. I allow that he would certainly have made a career, had it not been for the Three Days. As it is, you see him in London, like the rest of us, an exile!”

“And I suppose, without a sous.”

“No, I believe that he had still saved, and even augmented, in India, the portion he allotted to himself from Madame de Merville’s bequest.”

“And if he don’t play whist, he ought to play it,” said Lilburne. “You have roused my curiosity; I hope you will let me make his acquaintance, Monsieur de Liancourt. I am no politician, but allow me to propose this toast, ‘Success to those who have the wit to plan, and the strength to execute.’ In other words, ‘the Right Divine!’”

Soon afterwards the guests retired.

CHAPTER IV

“Ros. Happily, he’s the second time come to them.”—Hamlet.

It was the evening after that in which the conversations recorded in our last chapter were held;—evening in the quiet suburb of H–. The desertion and silence of the metropolis in September had extended to its neighbouring hamlets;—a village in the heart of the country could scarcely have seemed more still; the lamps were lighted, many of the shops already closed, a few of the sober couples and retired spinsters of the place might, here and there, be seen slowly wandering homeward after their evening walk: two or three dogs, in spite of the prohibitions of the magistrates placarded on the walls,—(manifestoes which threatened with death the dogs, and predicted more than ordinary madness to the public,)—were playing in the main road, disturbed from time to time as the slow coach, plying between the city and the suburb, crawled along the thoroughfare, or as the brisk mails whirled rapidly by, announced by the cloudy dust and the guard’s lively horn. Gradually even these evidences of life ceased—the saunterers disappeared, the mails had passed, the dogs gave place to the later and more stealthy perambulations of their feline successors “who love the moon.” At unfrequent intervals, the more important shops—the linen-drapers’, the chemists’, and the gin-palace—still poured out across the shadowy road their streams of light from windows yet unclosed: but with these exceptions, the business of the place stood still.

At this time there emerged from a milliner’s house (shop, to outward appearance, it was not, evincing its gentility and its degree above the Capelocracy, to use a certain classical neologism, by a brass plate on an oak door, whereon was graven, “Miss Semper, Milliner and Dressmaker, from Madame Devy,”)—at this time, I say, and from this house there emerged the light and graceful form of a young female. She held in her left hand a little basket, of the contents of which (for it was empty) she had apparently just disposed; and, as she stepped across the road, the lamplight fell on a face in the first bloom of youth, and characterised by an expression of childlike innocence and candour. It was a face regularly and exquisitely lovely, yet something there was in the aspect that saddened you; you knew not why, for it was not sad itself; on the contrary, the lips smiled and the eyes sparkled. As she now glided along the shadowy street with a light, quick step, a man, who had hitherto been concealed by the portico of an attorney’s house, advanced stealthily, and followed her at a little distance. Unconscious that she was dogged, and seemingly fearless of all danger, the girl went lightly on, swinging her basket playfully to and fro, and chaunting, in a low but musical tone, some verses that seemed rather to belong to the nursery than to that age which the fair singer had attained.

As she came to an angle which the main street formed with a lane, narrow and partially lighted, a policeman, stationed there, looked hard at her, and then touched his hat with an air of respect, in which there seemed also a little of compassion.

“Good night to you,” said the girl, passing him, and with a frank, gay tone.

“Shall I attend you home, Miss?” said the man.

“What for? I am very well!” answered the young woman, with an accent and look of innocent surprise.

Just at this time the man, who had hitherto followed her, gained the spot, and turned down the lane.

“Yes,” replied the policeman; “but it is getting dark, Miss.”

“So it is every night when I walk home, unless there’s a moon.—Good-bye.—The moon,” she repeated to herself, as she walked on, “I used to be afraid of the moon when I was a little child;” and then, after a pause, she murmured, in a low chaunt:

        “‘The moon she is a wandering ghost,        That walks in penance nightly;        How sad she is, that wandering moon,        For all she shines so brightly!        “‘I watched her eyes when I was young,        Until they turned my brain,        And now I often weep to think        ‘Twill ne’er be right again.’”

As the murmur of these words died at a distance down the lane in which the girl had disappeared, the policeman, who had paused to listen, shook his head mournfully, and said, while he moved on,—

“Poor thing! they should not let her always go about by herself; and yet, who would harm her?”

Meanwhile the girl proceeded along the lane, which was skirted by small, but not mean houses, till it terminated in a cross-stile that admitted into a church yard. Here hung the last lamp in the path, and a few dim stars broke palely over the long grass, and scattered gravestones, without piercing the deep shadow which the church threw over a large portion of the sacred ground. Just as she passed the stile, the man, whom we have before noticed, and who had been leaning, as if waiting for some one, against the pales, approached, and said gently,—

“Ah, Miss! it is a lone place for one so beautiful as you are to be alone. You ought never to be on foot.”

The girl stopped, and looked full, but without any alarm in her eyes, into the man’s face.

“Go away!” she said, with a half-peevish, half-kindly tone of command. “I don’t know you.”

“But I have been sent to speak to you by one who does know you, Miss—one who loves you to distraction—he has seen you before at Mrs. West’s. He is so grieved to think you should walk—you ought, he says, to have every luxury—that he has sent his carriage for you. It is on the other side of the yard. Do come now;” and he laid his hand, though very lightly, on her arm.

“At Mrs. West’s!” she said; and, for the first time, her voice and look showed fear. “Go away directly! How dare you touch me!”

“But, my dear Miss, you have no idea how my employer loves you, and how rich he is. See, he has sent you all this money; it is gold—real gold. You may have what you like, if you will but come. Now, don’t be silly, Miss.” The girl made no answer, but, with a sudden spring, passed the man, and ran lightly and rapidly along the path, in an opposite direction from that to which the tempter had pointed, when inviting her to the carriage. The man, surprised, but not baffled, reached her in an instant, and caught hold of her dress.

“Stay! you must come—you must!” he said, threateningly; and, loosening his grasp on her shawl, he threw his arm round her waist.

“Don’t!” cried the girl, pleadingly, and apparently subdued, turning her fair, soft face upon her pursuer, and clasping her hands. “Be quiet! Fanny is silly! No one is ever rude to poor Fanny!”

“And no one will be rude to you, Miss,” said the man, apparently touched; “but I dare not go without you. You don’t know what you refuse. Come;” and he attempted gently to draw her back.

“No, no!” said the girl, changing from supplication to anger, and raising her voice into a loud shriek, “No! I will—”

“Nay, then,” interrupted the man, looking round anxiously, and, with a quick and dexterous movement he threw a large handkerchief over her face, and, as he held it fast to her lips with one hand, he lifted her from the ground. Still violently struggling, the girl contrived to remove the handkerchief, and once more her shriek of terror rang through the violated sanctuary.

At that instant a loud deep voice was heard, “Who calls?” And a tall figure seemed to rise, as from the grave itself, and emerge from the shadow of the church. A moment more, and a strong gripe was laid on the shoulder of the ravisher. “What is this? On God’s ground, too! Release her, wretch!”

The man, trembling, half with superstitious, half with bodily fear, let go his captive, who fell at once at the knees of her deliverer. “Don’t you hurt me too,” she said, as the tears rolled down her eyes. “I am a good girl—and my grandfather’s blind.”

The stranger bent down and raised her; then looking round for the assailant with an eye whose dark fire shone through the gloom, he perceived the coward stealing off. He disdained to pursue.

“My poor child,” said he, with that voice which the strong assume to the weak—the man to some wounded infant—the voice of tender superiority and compassion, “there is no cause for fear now. Be soothed. Do you live near? Shall I see you home?”

“Thank you! That’s kind. Pray do!” And, with an infantine confidence she took his hand, as a child does that of a grown-up person;—so they walked on together.

“And,” said the stranger, “do you know that man? Has he insulted you before?”

“No—don’t talk of him: ce me fait mal!” And she put her hand to her forehead.

The French was spoken with so French an accent, that, in some curiosity, the stranger cast his eye over her plain dress.

“You speak French well.”

“Do I? I wish I knew more words—I only recollect a few. When I am very happy or very sad they come into my head. But I am happy now. I like your voice—I like you—Oh! I have dropped my basket!”

“Shall I go back for it, or shall I buy you another?”

“Another!—Oh, no! come back for it. How kind you are!—Ah! I see it!” and she broke away and ran forward to pick it up.

When she had recovered it, she laughed—she spoke to it—she kissed it.

Her companion smiled as he said: “Some sweetheart has given you that basket—it seems but a common basket too.”

“I have had it—oh, ever since—since—I don’t know how long! It came with me from France—it was full of little toys. They are gone—I am so sorry!”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“My pretty one,” said the stranger, with deep pity in his rich voice, “your mother should not let you go out alone at this hour.”

“Mother!—mother!” repeated the girl, in a tone of surprise.

“Have you no mother?”

“No! I had a father once. But he died, they say. I did not see him die. I sometimes cry when I think that I shall never, never see him again! But,” she said, changing her accent from melancholy almost to joy, “he is to have a grave here like the other girl’s fathers—a fine stone upon it—and all to be done with my money!”

“Your money, my child?”

“Yes; the money I make. I sell my work and take the money to my grandfather; but I lay by a little every week for a gravestone for my father.”

“Will the gravestone be placed in that churchyard?” They were now in another lane; and, as he spoke, the stranger checked her, and bending down to look into her face, he murmured to himself, “Is it possible?—it must be—it must!”

“Yes! I love that churchyard—my brother told me to put flowers there; and grandfather and I sit there in the summer, without speaking. But I don’t talk much, I like singing better:—

        “‘All things that good and harmless are        Are taught, they say, to sing        The maiden resting at her work,        The bird upon the wing;        The little ones at church, in prayer;        The angels in the sky        The angels less when babes are born        Than when the aged die.’”

And unconscious of the latent moral, dark or cheering, according as we estimate the value of this life, couched in the concluding rhyme, Fanny turned round to the stranger, and said, “Why should the angels be glad when the aged die?”

“That they are released from a false, unjust, and miserable world, in which the first man was a rebel, and the second a murderer!” muttered the stranger between his teeth, which he gnashed as he spoke.

The girl did not understand him: she shook her head gently, and made no reply. A few moments, and she paused before a small house.

“This is my home.”

“It is so,” said her companion, examining the exterior of the house with an earnest gaze; “and your name is Fanny.”

“Yes—every one knows Fanny. Come in;” and the girl opened the door with a latch-key.

The stranger bowed his stately height as he crossed the low threshold and followed his guide into a little parlour. Before a table on which burned dimly, and with unheeded wick, a single candle, sat a man of advanced age; and as he turned his face to the door, the stranger saw that he was blind.

The girl bounded to his chair, passed her arms round the old man’s neck, and kissed his forehead; then nestling herself at his feet, and leaning her clasped hands caressingly on his knee, she said,—

“Grandpapa, I have brought you somebody you must love. He has been so kind to Fanny.”

“And neither of you can remember me!” said the guest.

The old man, whose dull face seemed to indicate dotage, half raised himself at the sound of the stranger’s voice. “Who is that?” said he, with a feeble and querulous voice. “Who wants me?”

“I am the friend of your lost son. I am he who, ten years go, brought Fanny to your roof, and gave her to your care—your son’s last charge. And you blessed your son, and forgave him, and vowed to be a father to his Fanny.” The old man, who had now slowly risen to his feet, trembled violently, and stretched out his hands.

“Come near—near—let me put my hands on your head. I cannot see you; but Fanny talks of you, and prays for you; and Fanny—she has been an angel to me!”

The stranger approached and half knelt as the old man spread his hands over his head, muttering inaudibly. Meanwhile Fanny, pale as death—her lips apart—an eager, painful expression on her face—looked inquiringly on the dark, marked countenance of the visitor, and creeping towards him inch by inch, fearfully touched his dress—his arms—his countenance.

“Brother,” she said at last, doubtingly and timidly, “Brother, I thought I could never forget you! But you are not like my brother; you are older;—you are—you are!—no! no! you are not my brother!”

“I am much changed, Fanny; and you too!”

He smiled as he spoke; and the smile—sweet and pitying—thoroughly changed the character of his face, which was ordinarily stern, grave, and proud.

“I know you now!” exclaimed Fanny, in a tone of wild joy. “And you come back from that grave! My flowers have brought you back at last! I knew they would! Brother! Brother!”

And she threw herself on his breast and burst into passionate tears. Then, suddenly drawing herself back, she laid her finger on his arm, and looked up at him beseechingly.

“Pray, now, is he really dead? He, my father!—he, too, was lost like you. Can’t he come back again as you have done?”

“Do you grieve for him still, then? Poor girl!” said the stranger, evasively, and seating himself. Fanny continued to listen for an answer to her touching question; but finding that none was given, she stole away to a corner of the room, and leaned her face on her hands, and seemed to think—till at last, as she so sat, the tears began to flow down her cheeks, and she wept, but silently and unnoticed.

“But, sir,” said the guest, after a short pause, “how is this? Fanny tells me she supports you by her work. Are you so poor, then? Yet I left you your son’s bequest; and you, too, I understood, though not rich, were not in want!”

“There was a curse on my gold,” said the old man, sternly. “It was stolen from us.”