Night and Morning, Volume 2. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

his breast; and at the very instant that Mr. Plimmins had laid hands on his shoulder his resolution was formed. The instinct of self beat loud at his heart. With a bound— a spring that sent Mr. Plimmins sprawling in the kennel, he darted across the road, and fled down an opposite lane.

      "Stop him! stop!" cried the bookseller, and the officer rushed after him with almost equal speed. Lane after lane, alley after alley, fled Philip; dodging, winding, breathless, panting; and lane after lane, and alley after alley, thickened at his heels the crowd that pursued. The idle and the curious, and the officious,—ragged boys, ragged men, from stall and from cellar, from corner and from crossing, joined in that delicious chase, which runs down young Error till it sinks, too often, at the door of the gaol or the foot of the gallows. But Philip slackened not his pace; he began to distance his pursuers. He was now in a street which they had not yet entered—a quiet street, with few, if any, shops. Before the threshold of a better kind of public-house, or rather tavern, to judge by its appearance, lounged two men; and while Philip flew on, the cry of "Stop him!" had changed as the shout passed to new voices, into "Stop the thief!"—that cry yet howled in the distance. One of the loungers seized him: Philip, desperate and ferocious, struck at him with all his force; but the blow was scarcely felt by that Herculean frame.

      "Pish!" said the man, scornfully; "I am no spy; if you run from justice, I would help you to a sign-post."

      Struck by the voice, Philip looked hard at the speaker. It was the voice of the Accursed Son.

      "Save me! you remember me?" said the orphan, faintly. "Ah! I think I do; poor lad! Follow me-this way!" The stranger turned within the tavern, passed the hall through a sort of corridor that led into a back yard which opened upon a nest of courts or passages.

      "You are safe for the present; I will take you where you can tell me all at your ease—See!" As he spoke they emerged into an open street, and the guide pointed to a row of hackney coaches. "Be quick—get in. Coachman, drive fast to –"

      Philip did not hear the rest of the direction.

      Our story returns to Sidney.

      CHAPTER III

      "Nous vous mettrons a couvert,

      Repondit le pot de fer

      Si quelque matiere dure

      Vous menace d'aventure,

      Entre deux je passerai,

      Et du coup vous sauverai.

      ........

Le pot de terre en souffre!"—LA FONTAINE.

      ["We, replied the Iron Pot, will shield you: should any hard substance menace you with danger, I'll intervene, and save you from the shock.

      .........The Earthen Pot was the sufferer!]

      "SIDNEY, come here, sir! What have you been at? you have torn your frill into tatters! How did you do this? Come sir, no lies."

      "Indeed, ma'am, it was not my fault. I just put my head out of the window to see the coach go by, and a nail caught me here."

      "Why, you little plague! you have scratched yourself—you are always in mischief. What business had you to look after the coach?"

      "I don't know," said Sidney, hanging his head ruefully. "La, mother!" cried the youngest of the cousins, a square-built, ruddy, coarse-featured urchin, about Sidney's age, "La, mother, he never see a coach in the street when we are at play but he runs arter it."

      "After, not arter," said Mr. Roger Morton, taking the pipe from his mouth.

      "Why do you go after the coaches, Sidney?" said Mrs. Morton; "it is very naughty; you will be run over some day."

      "Yes, ma'am," said Sidney, who during the whole colloquy had been trembling from bead to foot.

      "'Yes ma'am,' and 'no, ma'am:' you have no more manners than a cobbler's boy."

      "Don't tease the child, my dear; he is crying," said Mr. Morton, more authoritatively than usual. "Come here, my man!" and the worthy uncle took him in his lap and held his glass of brandy-and-water to his lips; Sidney, too frightened to refuse, sipped hurriedly, keeping his large eyes fixed on his aunt, as children do when they fear a cuff.

      "You spoil the boy more than do your own flesh and blood," said Mrs. Morton, greatly displeased.

      Here Tom, the youngest-born before described, put his mouth to his mother's ear, and whispered loud enough to be heard by all: "He runs arter the coach 'cause he thinks his ma may be in it. Who's home-sick, I should like to know? Ba! Baa!"

      The boy pointed his finger over his mother's shoulder, and the other children burst into a loud giggle.

      "Leave the room, all of you,—leave the room!" said Mr. Morton, rising angrily and stamping his foot.

      The children, who were in great awe of their father, huddled and hustled each other to the door; but Tom, who went last, bold in his mother's favour, popped his head through the doorway, and cried, "Good-bye, little home-sick!"

      A sudden slap in the face from his father changed his chuckle into a very different kind of music, and a loud indignant sob was heard without for some moments after the door was closed.

      "If that's the way you behave to your children, Mr. Morton, I vow you sha'n't have any more if I can help it. Don't come near me—don't touch me!" and Mrs. Morton assumed the resentful air of offended beauty.

      "Pshaw!" growled the spouse, and he reseated himself and resumed his pipe. There was a dead silence. Sidney crouched near his uncle, looking very pale. Mrs. Morton, who was knitting, knitted away with the excited energy of nervous irritation.

      "Ring the bell, Sidney," said Mr. Morton. The boy obeyed-the parlour- maid entered. "Take Master Sidney to his room; keep the boys away from him, and give him a large slice of bread and jam, Martha."

      "Jam, indeed!—treacle," said Mrs. Morton.

      "Jam, Martha," repeated the uncle, authoritatively. "Treacle!" reiterated the aunt.

      "Jam, I say!"

      "Treacle, you hear: and for that matter, Martha has no jam to give!"

      The husband had nothing more to say.

      "Good night, Sidney; there's a good boy, go and kiss your aunt and make your bow; and I say, my lad, don't mind those plagues. I'll talk to them to-morrow, that I will; no one shall be unkind to you in my house."

      Sidney muttered something, and went timidly up to Mrs. Morton. His look so gentle and subdued; his eyes full of tears; his pretty mouth which, though silent, pleaded so eloquently; his willingness to forgive, and his wish to be forgiven, might have melted many a heart harder, perhaps, than Mrs. Morton's. But there reigned what are worse than hardness,– prejudice and wounded vanity—maternal vanity. His contrast to her own rough, coarse children grated on her, and set the teeth of her mind on edge.

      "There, child, don't tread on my gown: you are so awkward: say your prayers, and don't throw off the counterpane! I don't like slovenly boys."

      Sidney put his finger in his mouth, drooped, and vanished.

      "Now, Mrs. M.," said Mr. Morton, abruptly, and knocking out the ashes of his pipe; "now Mrs. M., one word for all: I have told you that I promised poor Catherine to be a father to that child, and it goes to my heart to see him so snubbed. Why you dislike him I can't guess for the life of me. I never saw a sweeter-tempered child."

      "Go on, sir, go on: make your personal reflections on your own lawful wife. They don't hurt me—oh no, not at all! Sweet-tempered, indeed; I suppose your own children are not sweet-tempered?"

      "That's neither here nor there," said Mr. Morton: "my own children are such as God made them, and I am very well satisfied."

      "Indeed you may be proud of such a family; and to think of the pains I have taken with them, and how I have saved you in nurses, and the bad times I have had; and now, to find their noses put out of joint by that little mischief-making interloper—it is too bad of you, Mr. Morton; you will break my heart—that you will!"

      Mrs. Morton put her handkerchief to