Why does not my father come back? what a time he has been away!
My dear Philip, business detains him; but he will be here in a few daysperhaps to-day!
I should like him to see how much I am improved.
Improved in what, Philip? said the mother, with a smile. Not Latin, I am sure; for I have not seen you open a book since you insisted on poor Todds dismissal.
Todd! Oh, he was such a scrub, and spoke through his nose: what could he know of Latin?
More than you ever will, I fear, unless and here there was a certain hesitation in the mothers voice, unless your father consents to your going to school.
Well, I should like to go to Eton! Thats the only school for a gentleman. Ive heard my father say so.
Philip, you are too proud.Proud! you often call me proud; but, then, you kiss me when you do so. Kiss me now, mother.
The lady drew her son to her breast, put aside the clustering hair from his forehead, and kissed him; but the kiss was sad, and the moment after she pushed him away gently and muttered, unconscious that she was overheard:
If, after all, my devotion to the father should wrong the children!
The boy started, and a cloud passed over his brow; but he said nothing. A light step entered the room through the French casements that opened on the lawn, and the mother turned to her youngest-born, and her eye brightened.
Mamma! mamma! here is a letter for you. I snatched it from John: it is papas handwriting.
The lady uttered a joyous exclamation, and seized the letter. The younger child nestled himself on a stool at her feet, looking up while she read it; the elder stood apart, leaning on his gun, and with something of thought, even of gloom, upon his countenance.
There was a strong contrast in the two boys. The elder, who was about fifteen, seemed older than he was, not only from his height, but from the darkness of his complexion, and a certain proud, nay, imperious, expression upon features that, without having the soft and fluent graces of childhood, were yet regular and striking. His dark-green shooting-dress, with the belt and pouch, the cap, with its gold tassel set upon his luxuriant curls, which had the purple gloss of the ravens plume, blended perhaps something prematurely manly in his own tastes, with the love of the fantastic and the picturesque which bespeaks the presiding genius of the proud mother. The younger son had scarcely told his ninth year; and the soft, auburn ringlets, descending half-way down the shoulders; the rich and delicate bloom that exhibits at once the hardy health and the gentle fostering; the large deep-blue eyes; the flexile and almost effeminate contour of the harmonious features; altogether made such an ideal of childlike beauty as Lawrence had loved to paint or Chantrey model. And the daintiest cares of a mother, who, as yet, has her darling all to herselfher toy, her playthingwere visible in the large falling collar of finest cambric, and the blue velvet dress with its filigree buttons and embroidered sash.
Both the boys had about them the air of those whom Fate ushers blandly into life; the air of wealth, and birth, and luxury, spoiled and pampered as if earth had no thorn for their feet, and heaven not a wind to visit their young cheeks too roughly. The mother had been extremely handsome; and though the first bloom of youth was now gone, she had still the beauty that might captivate new lovean easier task than to retain the old. Both her sons, though differing from each other, resembled her; she had the features of the younger; and probably any one who had seen her in her own earlier youth would have recognized in that childs gay yet gentle countenance the mirror of the mother when a girl. Now, however, especially when silent or thoughtful, the expression of her face was rather that of the elder boy;the cheek, once so rosy was now pale, though clear, with something which time had given, of pride and thought, in the curved lip and the high forehead. One who could have looked on her in her more lonely hours, might have seen that the pride had known shame, and the thought was the shadow of the passions of fear and sorrow.
But now as she read those hasty, brief, but well-remembered charactersread as one whose heart was in her eyesjoy and triumph alone were visible in that eloquent countenance. Her eyes flashed, her breast heaved; and at length, clasping the letter to her lips, she kissed it again and again with passionate transport. Then, as her eyes met the dark, inquiring, earnest gaze of her eldest born, she flung her arms round him, and wept vehemently.
What is the matter, mamma, dear mamma? said the youngest, pushing himself between Philip and his mother. Your father is coming back, this daythis very hour;and youyouchildyou, Philip Here sobs broke in upon her words, and left her speechless.
The letter that had produced this effect ran as follows:
TO MRS MORTON, Fernside Cottage.
DEAREST KATE,My last letter prepared you for the news I have now to relatemy poor uncle is no more. Though I had seen little of him, especially of late years, his death sensibly affected me; but I have at least the consolation of thinking that there is nothing now to prevent my doing justice to you. I am the sole heir to his fortuneI have it in my power, dearest Kate, to offer you a tardy recompense for all you have put up with for my sake;a sacred testimony to your long forbearance, your unreproachful love, your wrongs, and your devotion. Our children, toomy noble Philip!kiss them, Katekiss them for me a thousand times.
I write in great hastethe burial is just over, and my letter will only serve to announce my return. My darling Catherine, I shall be with you almost as soon as these lines meet your eyesthose clear eyes, that, for all the tears they have shed for my faults and follies, have never looked the less kind. Yours, ever as ever, PHILIP BEAUFORT.
This letter has told its tale, and little remains to explain. Philip Beaufort was one of those men of whom there are many in his peculiar class of societyeasy, thoughtless, good-humoured, generous, with feelings infinitely better than his principles.
Inheriting himself but a moderate fortune, which was three parts in the hands of the Jews before he was twenty-five, he had the most brilliant expectations from his uncle; an old bachelor, who, from a courtier, had turned a misanthropecoldshrewdpenetratingworldlysarcasticand imperious; and from this relation he received, meanwhile, a handsome and, indeed, munificent allowance. About sixteen years before the date at which this narrative opens, Philip Beaufort had run off, as the saying is, with Catherine Morton, then little more than a child,a motherless childeducated at a boarding-school to notions and desires far beyond her station; for she was the daughter of a provincial tradesman. And Philip Beaufort, in the prime of life, was possessed of most of the qualities that dazzle the eyes and many of the arts that betray the affections. It was suspected by some that they were privately married: if so, the secret had been closely kept, and baffled all the inquiries of the stern old uncle. Still there was much, not only in the manner, at once modest and dignified, but in the character of Catherine, which was proud and high-spirited, to give colour to the suspicion. Beaufort, a man naturally careless of forms, paid her a marked and punctilious respect; and his attachment was evidently one not only of passion, but of confidence and esteem. Time developed in her mental qualities far superior to those of Beaufort, and for these she had ample leisure of cultivation. To the influence derived from her mind and person she added that of a frank, affectionate, and winning disposition; their children cemented the bond between them. Mr. Beaufort was passionately attached to field sports. He lived the greater part of the year with Catherine, at the beautiful cottage to which he had built hunting stables that were the admiration of the county; and though the cottage was near London, the pleasures of the metropolis seldom allured him for more than a few daysgenerally but a few hoursat a time; and healways hurried back with renewed relish to what he considered his home.
Whatever the connection between Catherine and himself (and of the true nature of that connection, the Introductory Chapter has made the reader more enlightened than the world), her influence had, at least, weaned from all excesses, and many follies, a man who, before he knew her, had seemed likely, from the extreme joviality and carelessness of his nature, and a very imperfect education, to contract whatever vices were most in fashion as preservatives against ennui. And if their union had been openly hallowed by the Church, Philip Beaufort had been universally esteemed the model of a tender husband and a fond father. Ever, as he became more and more acquainted with Catherines natural good qualities, and more and more attached to his home, had Mr. Beaufort, with the generosity of true affection, desired to remove from her the pain of an equivocal condition by a public marriage. But Mr. Beaufort, though generous, was not free from the worldliness which had met him everywhere, amidst the society in which his youth had been spent. His uncle, the head of one of those families which yearly vanish from the commonalty into the peerage, but which once formed a distinguished peculiarity in the aristocracy of Englandfamilies of ancient birth, immense possessions, at once noble and untitledheld his estates by no other tenure than his own caprice. Though he professed to like Philip, yet he saw but little of him. When the news of the illicit connection his nephew was reported to have formed reached him, he at first resolved to break it off; but observing that Philip no longer gambled, nor ran in debt, and had retired from the turf to the safer and more economical pastimes of the field, he contented himself with inquiries which satisfied him that Philip was not married; and perhaps he thought it, on the whole, more prudent to wink at an error that was not attended by the bills which had here-to-fore characterised the human infirmities of his reckless nephew. He took care, however, incidentally, and in reference to some scandal of the day, to pronounce his opinion, not upon the fault, but upon the only mode of repairing it.
If ever, said he, and he looked grimly at Philip while he spoke, a gentleman were to disgrace his ancestry by introducing into his family one whom his own sister could not receive at her house, why, he ought to sink to her level, and wealth would but make his disgrace the more notorious. If I had an only son, and that son were booby enough to do anything so discreditable as to marry beneath him, I would rather have my footman for my successor. You understand, Phil!
Philip did understand, and looked round at the noble house and the stately park, and his generosity was not equal to the trial. Catherineso great was her power over himmight, perhaps, have easily triumphed over his more selfish calculations; but her love was too delicate ever to breathe, of itself, the hope that lay deepest at her heart. And her children!ah! for them she pined, but for them she also hoped. Before them was a long future, and she had all confidence in Philip. Of late, there had been considerable doubts how far the elder Beaufort would realise the expectations in which his nephew had been reared. Philips younger brother had been much with the old gentleman, and appeared to be in high favour: this brother was a man in every respect the opposite to Philipsober, supple, decorous, ambitious, with a face of smiles and a heart of ice.
But the old gentleman was taken dangerously ill, and Philip was summoned to his bed of death. Robert, the younger brother, was there also, with his wife (who he had married prudently) and his children (he had two, a son and a daughter). Not a word did the uncle say as to the disposition of his property till an hour before he died. And then, turning in his bed, he looked first at one nephew, then at the other, and faltered out:
Philip, you are a scapegrace, but a gentleman! Robert, you are a careful, sober, plausible man; and it is a great pity you were not in business; you would have made a fortune!you wont inherit one, though you think it: I have marked you, sir. Philip, beware of your brother. Now let me see the parson.
The old man died; the will was read; and Philip succeeded to a rental of L20,000. a-year; Robert, to a diamond ring, a gold repeater, L5,000. and a curious collection of bottled snakes.
CHAPTER III
Stay, delightful Dream;
Let him within his pleasant garden walk;
Give him her armof blessings let them talk.
There, Robert, there! now you can see the new stables. By Jove, they are the completest thing in the three kingdoms!
Quite a pile! But is that the house? You lodge your horses more magnificently than yourself.
But is it not a beautiful cottage?to be sure, it owes everything to Catherines taste. Dear Catherine!
Mr. Robert Beaufort, for this colloquy took place between the brothers, as their britska rapidly descended the hill, at the foot of which lay Fernside Cottage and its miniature demesnesMr. Robert Beaufort pulled his travelling cap over his brows, and his countenance fell, whether at the name of Catherine, or the tone in which the name was uttered; and there was a pause, broken by a third occupant of the britska, a youth of about seventeen, who sat opposite the brothers.
And who are those boys on the lawn, uncle?
Who are those boys? It was a simple question, but it grated on the ear of Mr. Robert Beaufortit struck discord at his heart. Who were those boys? as they ran across the sward, eager to welcome their father home; the westering sun shining full on their joyous facestheir young forms so lithe and so gracefultheir merry laughter ringing in the still air. Those boys, thought Mr. Robert Beaufort, the sons of shame, rob mine of his inheritance. The elder brother turned round at his nephews question, and saw the expression on Roberts face. He bit his lip, and answered, gravely:
Arthur, they are my children.
I did not know you were married, replied Arthur, bending forward to take a better view of his cousins.
Mr. Robert Beaufort smiled bitterly, and Philips brow grew crimson.
The carriage stopped at the little lodge. Philip opened the door, and jumped to the ground; the brother and his son followed. A moment more, and Philip was locked in Catherines arms, her tears falling fast upon his breast; his children plucking at his coat; and the younger one crying in his shrill, impatient treble, Papa! papa! you dont see Sidney, papa!
Mr. Robert Beaufort placed his hand on his sons shoulder, and arrested his steps, as they contemplated the group before them.
Arthur, said he, in a hollow whisper, those children are our disgrace and your supplanters; they are bastards! bastards! and they are to be his heirs!
Arthur made no answer, but the smile with which he had hitherto gazed on his new relations vanished.
Kate, said Mr. Beaufort, as he turned from Mrs. Morton, and lifted his youngest-born in his arms, this is my brother and his son: they are welcome, are they not?
Mr. Robert bowed low, and extended his hand, with stiff affability, to Mrs. Morton, muttering something equally complimentary and inaudible.
The party proceeded towards the house. Philip and Arthur brought up the rear.
Do you shoot? asked Arthur, observing the gun in his cousins hand.
Yes. I hope this season to bag as many head as my father: he is a famous shot. But this is only a single barrel, and an old-fashioned sort of detonator. My father must get me one of the new gulls: I cant afford it myself.