Part 27 (1/2)
”No, brother--he says you won't go, and that you are a bad boy--and that you a.s.sociate with wicked people--and that you want to keep me shut up here and not let any one be good to me. But I told him I did not believe that--yes, indeed, I told him so.”
And Sidney endeavoured caressingly to withdraw the hands that his brother placed before his face.
Morton started up, and walked hastily to and fro the room. ”This,”
thought he, ”is another emissary of the Beauforts'--perhaps the lawyer: they will take him from me--the last thing left to love and hope for. I will foil them.”
”Sidney,” he said aloud, ”we must go hence today, this very hour-nay, instantly.”
”What! away from this nice, good gentleman?”
”Curse him! yes, away from him. Do not cry--it is of no use--you must go.”
This was said more harshly than Philip had ever yet spoken to Sidney; and when he had said it, he left the room to settle with the landlady, and to pack up their scanty effects. In another hour, the brothers had turned their backs on the town.
CHAPTER X.
”I'll carry thee In sorrow's arms to welcome Misery.”
HEYWOOD's d.u.c.h.ess of Sufolk.
”Who's here besides foul weather?”
SHAKSPEARE Lear.
The sun was as bright and the sky as calm during the journey of the orphans as in the last. They avoided, as before, the main roads, and their way lay through landscapes that might have charmed a Gainsborough's eye. Autumn scattered its last hues of gold over the various foliage, and the poppy glowed from the hedges, and the wild convolvuli, here and there, still gleamed on the wayside with a parting smile.
At times, over the sloping stubbles, broke the sound of the sportsman's gun; and ever and anon, by stream and sedge, they startled the shy wild fowl, just come from the far lands, nor yet settled in the new haunts too soon to be invaded.
But there was no longer in the travellers the same hearts that had made light of hards.h.i.+p and fatigue. Sidney was no longer flying from a harsh master, and his step was not elastic with the energy of fear that looked behind, and of hope that smiled before. He was going a toilsome, weary journey, he knew not why nor whither; just, too, when he had made a friend, whose soothing words haunted his childish fancy. He was displeased with Philip, and in sullen and silent thoughtfulness slowly plodded behind him; and Morton himself was gloomy, and knew not where in the world to seek a future.
They arrived at dusk at a small inn, not so far distant from the town they had left as Morton could have wished; but the days were shorter than in their first flight.
They were shown into a small sanded parlour, which Sidney eyed with great disgust; nor did he seem more pleased with the hacked and jagged leg of cold mutton, which was all that the hostess set before them for supper. Philip in vain endeavoured to cheer him up, and ate to set him the example. He felt relieved when, under the auspices of a good-looking, good-natured chambermaid, Sidney retired to rest, and he was left in the parlour to his own meditations. Hitherto it had been a happy thing for Morton that he had had some one dependent on him; that feeling had given him perseverance, patience, fort.i.tude, and hope. But now, dispirited and sad, he felt rather the horror of being responsible for a human life, without seeing the means to discharge the trust.
It was clear, even to his experience, that he was not likely to find another employer as facile as Mr. Stubmore; and wherever he went, he felt as if his Destiny stalked at his back. He took out his little fortune and spread it on the table, counting it over and over; it had remained pretty stationary since his service with Mr. Stubmore, for Sidney had swallowed up the wages of his hire. While thus employed, the door opened, and the chambermaid, showing in a gentleman, said, ”We have no other room, sir.”
”Very well, then,--I'm not particular; a tumbler of braundy and water, stiffish, cold without, the newspaper--and a cigar. You'll excuse smoking, sir?”
Philip looked up from his h.o.a.rd, and Captain de Burgh Smith stood before him.
”Ah!” said the latter, ”well met!” And closing the door, he took off his great-coat, seated himself near Philip, and bent both his eyes with considerable wistfulness on the neat rows into which Philip's bank-notes, sovereigns, and s.h.i.+llings were arrayed.
”Pretty little sum for pocket money; caush in hand goes a great way, properly invested. You must have been very lucky. Well, so I suppose you are surprised to see me here without my pheaton?”
”I wish I had never seen you at all,” replied Philip, uncourteously, and restoring his money to his pocket; ”your fraud upon Mr. Stubmore, and your a.s.surance that you knew me, have sent me adrift upon the world.”
”What's one man's meat is another man's poison,” said the captain, philosophically; ”no use fretting, care killed a cat. I am as badly off as you; for, hang me, if there was not a Bow Street runner in the town.
I caught his eye fixed on me like a gimlet: so I bolted--went to N----, left my pheaton and groom there for the present, and have doubled back, to bauffle pursuit, and cut across the country. You recollect that voice girl we saw in the coach; 'gad, I served her spouse that is to be a praetty trick! Borrowed his money under pretence of investing it in the New Grand Anti-Dry-Rot Company; cool hundred--it's only just gone, sir.”
Here the chambermaid entered with the brandy and water, the newspaper, and cigar,--the captain lighted the last, took a deep sup from the beverage, and said, gaily: