Be quiet, father! said the boy, petulantly and proudly; or, he added, in a lower voice, but one which showed emotion, my cousin may think you mean less kindly than you always do, sir.
The father was touched: Go and cut the lime-boughs, John; and always do as Mr. Philip tells you.
The mother was behind, and she sighed audibly. Ah! dearest, I fear you will spoil him.
Is he not your son? and do we not owe him the more respect for having hitherto allowed others to
He stopped, and the mother could say no more. And thus it was, that this boy of powerful character and strong passions had, from motives the most amiable, been pampered from the darling into the despot.
And now, Kate, I will, as I told you last night, ride over to and fix the earliest day for our public marriage: I will ask the lawyer to dine here, to talk about the proper steps for proving the private one.
Will that be difficult asked Catherine, with natural anxiety.
No,for if you remember, I had the precaution to get an examined copy of the register; otherwise, I own to you, I should have been alarmed. I dont know what has become of Smith. I heard some time since from his father that he had left the colony; and (I never told you beforeit would have made you uneasy) once, a few years ago, when my uncle again got it into his head that we might be married, I was afraid poor Calebs successor might, by chance, betray us. So I went over to A myself, being near it when I was staying with Lord C, in order to see how far it might be necessary to secure the parson; and, only think! I found an accident had happened to the registerso, as the clergyman could know nothing, I kept my own counsel. How lucky I have the copy! No doubt the lawyer will set all to rights; and, while I am making the settlements, I may as well make my will. I have plenty for both boys, but the dark one must be the heir. Does he not look born to be an eldest son?
Ah, Philip!
Pshaw! one dont die the sooner for making a will. Have I the air of a man in a consumption?and the sturdy sportsman glanced complacently at the strength and symmetry of his manly limbs. Come, Phil, lets go to the stables. Now, Robert, I will show you what is better worth seeing than those miserable flower-beds. So saying, Mr. Beaufort led the way to the courtyard at the back of the cottage. Catherine and Sidney remained on the lawn; the rest followed the host. The grooms, of whom Beaufort was the idol, hastened to show how well the horses had thriven in his absence.
Do see how Brown Bess has come on, sir! but, to be sure, Master Philip keeps her in exercise. Ah, sir, he will be as good a rider as your honour, one of these days.
He ought to be a better, Tom; for I think hell never have my weight to carry. Well, saddle Brown Bess for Mr. Philip. What horse shall I take? Ah! heres my old friend, Puppet!
I dont know whats come to Puppet, sir; hes off his feed, and turned sulky. I tried him over the bar yesterday; but he was quite restive like.
The devil he was! So, so, old boy, you shall go over the six-barred gate to-day, or well know why. And Mr. Beaufort patted the sleek neck of his favourite hunter. Put the saddle on him, Tom.
Yes, your honour. I sometimes think he is hurt in the loins somehowhe dont take to his leaps kindly, and he always tries to bite when we bridles him. Be quiet, sir!
Only his airs, said Philip. I did not know this, or I would have taken him over the gate. Why did not you tell me, Tom?
Lord love you, sir! because you have such a spurret; and if anything had come to you
Quite right: you are not weight enough for Puppet, my boy; and he never did like any one to back him but myself. What say you, brother, will you ride with us?
No, I must go to to-day with Arthur. I have engaged the post-horses at two oclock; but I shall be with you to-morrow or the day after. You see his tutor expects him; and as he is backward in his mathematics, he has no time to lose.
Well, then, good-bye, nephew! and Beaufort slipped a pocket-book into the boys hand. Tush! whenever you want money, dont trouble your fatherwrite to mewe shall be always glad to see you; and you must teach Philip to like his book a little bettereh, Phil?
No, father; I shall be rich enough to do without books, said Philip, rather coarsely; but then observing the heightened colour of his cousin, he went up to him, and with a generous impulse said, Arthur, you admired this gun; pray accept it. Nay, dont be shyI can have as many as I like for the asking: youre not so well off, you know.
The intention was kind, but the manner was so patronising that Arthur felt offended. He put back the gun, and said, drily, I shall have no occasion for the gun, thank you.
If Arthur was offended by the offer, Philip was much more offended by the refusal. As you like; I hate pride, said he; and he gave the gun to the groom as he vaulted into his saddle with the lightness of a young Mercury. Come, father!
Mr. Beaufort had now mounted his favourite huntera large, powerful horse well known for its prowess in the field. The rider trotted him once or twice through the spacious yard.
Nonsense, Tom: no more hurt in the loins than I am. Open that gate; we will go across the paddock, and take the gate yonderthe old six-bareh, Phil?
Capital!to be sure!
The gate was openedthe grooms stood watchful to see the leap, and a kindred curiosity arrested Robert Beaufort and his son.
How well they looked! those two horsemen; the ease, lightness, spirit of the one, with the fine-limbed and fiery steed that literally bounded beneath him as a barbseemingly as gay, as ardent, and as haughty as the boyrider. And the manly, and almost herculean form of the elder Beaufort, which, from the buoyancy of its movements, and the supple grace that belongs to the perfect mastership of any athletic art, possessed an elegance and dignity, especially on horseback, which rarely accompanies proportions equally sturdy and robust. There was indeed something knightly and chivalrous in the bearing of the elder Beaufortin his handsome aquiline features, the erectness of his mien, the very wave of his hand, as he spurred from the yard.
What a fine-looking fellow my uncle is! said Arthur, with involuntary admiration.
Ay, an excellent lifeamazingly strong! returned the pale father, with a slight sigh.
Philip, said Mr. Beaufort, as they cantered across the paddock, I think the gate is too much for you. I will just take Puppet over, and then we will open it for you.
Pooh, my dear father! you dont know how Im improved! And slackening the rein, and touching the side of his horse, the young rider darted forward and cleared the gate, which was of no common height, with an ease that extorted a loud bravo from the proud father.
Now, Puppet, said Mr. Beaufort, spurring his own horse. The animal cantered towards the gate, and then suddenly turned round with an impatient and angry snort. For shame, Puppet!for shame, old boy! said the sportsman, wheeling him again to the barrier. The horse shook his head, as if in remonstrance; but the spur vigorously applied showed him that his master would not listen to his mute reasonings. He bounded forwardmade at the gatestruck his hoofs against the top barfell forward, and threw his rider head foremost on the road beyond. The horse rose instantlynot so the master. The son dismounted, alarmed and terrified. His father was speechless! and blood gushed from the mouth and nostrils, as the head drooped heavily on the boys breast. The bystanders had witnessed the fallthey crowded to the spotthey took the fallen man from the weak arms of the sonthe head groom examined him with the eye of one who had picked up science from his experience in such casualties.
Speak, brother!where are you hurt? exclaimed Robert Beaufort.
He will never speak more! said the groom, bursting into tears. His neck is broken!
Send for the nearest surgeon, cried Mr. Robert. Good God! boy! dont mount that devilish horse!
But Arthur had already leaped on the unhappy steed, which had been the cause of this appalling affliction. Which way?
Straight on to , only two milesevery one knows Mr. Powiss house. God bless you! said the groom. Arthur vanished.
Lift him carefully, and take him to the house, said Mr. Robert. My poor brother! my dear brother!
He was interrupted by a cry, a single shrill, heartbreaking cry; and Philip fell senseless to the ground.
No one heeded him at that hourno one heeded the fatherless BASTARD. Gently, gently, said Mr. Robert, as he followed the servants and their load. And he then muttered to himself, and his sallow cheek grew bright, and his breath came short: He has made no willhe never made a will.
CHAPTER V
Constance. O boy, then where art thou?
* * * * What becomes of me
It was three days after the death of Philip Beaufortfor the surgeon arrived only to confirm the judgment of the groom: in the drawing-room of the cottage, the windows closed, lay the body, in its coffin, the lid not yet nailed down. There, prostrate on the floor, tearless, speechless, was the miserable Catherine; poor Sidney, too young to comprehend all his loss, sobbing at her side; while Philip apart, seated beside the coffin, gazed abstractedly on that cold rigid face which had never known one frown for his boyish follies.
In another room, that had been appropriated to the late owner, called his study, sat Robert Beaufort. Everything in this room spoke of the deceased. Partially separated from the rest of the house, it communicated by a winding staircase with a chamber above, to which Philip had been wont to betake himself whenever he returned late, and over-exhilarated, from some rural feast crowning a hard days hunt. Above a quaint, old-fashioned bureau of Dutch workmanship (which Philip had picked up at a sale in the earlier years of his marriage) was a portrait of Catherine taken in the bloom of her youth. On a peg on the door that led to the staircase, still hung his rough driving coat. The window commanded the view of the paddock in which the worn-out hunter or the unbroken colt grazed at will. Around the walls of the study(a strange misnomer!)hung prints of celebrated fox-hunts and renowned steeple-chases: guns, fishing-rods, and foxes brushes, ranged with a sportsmans neatness, supplied the place of books. On the mantelpiece lay a cigar-case, a well-worn volume on the Veterinary Art, and the last number of the Sporting Magazine. And in the roomthus witnessing of the hardy, masculine, rural life, that had passed awaysallow, stooping, town-worn, sat, I say, Robert Beaufort, the heir-at-law,alone: for the very day of the death he had remanded his son home with the letter that announced to his wife the change in their fortunes, and directed her to send his lawyer post-haste to the house of death. The bureau, and the drawers, and the boxes which contained the papers of the deceased were open; their contents had been ransacked; no certificate of the private marriage, no hint of such an event; not a paper found to signify the last wishes of the rich dead man.
He had died, and made no sign. Mr. Robert Beauforts countenance was still and composed.
A knock at the door was heard; the lawyer entered.
Sir, the undertakers are here, and Mr. Greaves has ordered the bells to be rung: at three oclock he will read the service.
I am obliged to you., Blackwell, for taking these melancholy offices on yourself. My poor brother!it is so sudden! But the funeral, you say, ought to take place to-day?
The weather is so warm, said the lawyer, wiping his forehead. As he spoke, the death-bell was heard.
There was a pause.
It would have been a terrible shock to Mrs. Morton if she had been his wife, observed Mr. Blackwell. But I suppose persons of that kind have very little feeling. I must say that it was fortunate for the family that the event happened before Mr. Beaufort was wheedled into so improper a marriage.
It was fortunate, Blackwell. Have you ordered the post-horses? I shall start immediately after the funeral.
What is to be done with the cottage, sir?
You may advertise it for sale.
And Mrs. Morton and the boys? Hum! we will consider. She was a tradesmans daughter. I think I ought to provide for her suitably, eh?
It is more than the world could expect from you, sir; it is very different from a wife.
Oh, very!very much so, indeed! Just ring for a lighted candle, we will seal up these boxes. AndI think I could take a sandwich. Poor Philip!
The funeral was over; the dead shovelled away. What a strange thing it does seem, that that very form which we prized so charily, for which we prayed the winds to be gentle, which we lapped from the cold in our arms, from whose footstep we would have removed a stone, should be suddenly thrust out of sightan abomination that the earth must not look upona despicable loathsomeness, to be concealed and to be forgotten! And this same composition of bone and muscle that was yesterday so strongwhich men respected, and women loved, and children clung toto-day so lamentably powerless, unable to defend or protect those who lay nearest to its heart; its riches wrested from it, its wishes spat upon, its influence expiring with its last sigh! A breath from its lips making all that mighty difference between what it was and what it is!
The post-horses were at the door as the funeral procession returned to the house.
Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. Morton, and said, with his pocket-handkerchief still before his eyes:
I will write to you in a few days, maam; you will find that I shall not forget you. The cottage will be sold; but we shant hurry you. Good-bye, maam; good-bye, my boys; and he patted his nephews on the head.
Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his uncle, who muttered to himself, That boy will come to no good! Little Sidney put his hand into the rich mans, and looked up, pleadingly, into his face. Cant you say something pleasant to poor mamma, Uncle Robert?
Mr. Beaufort hemmed huskily, and entered the britskait had been his brothers: the lawyer followed, and they drove away.
A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the house into the conservatory, to gather some fruit for his mother; she had scarcely touched food since Beauforts death. She was worn to a shadow; her hair had turned grey. Now she had at last found tears, and she wept noiselessly but unceasingly.
The boy had plucked some grapes, and placed them carefully in his basket: he was about to select a nectarine that seemed riper than the rest, when his hand was roughly seized; and the gruff voice of John Green, the gardener, exclaimed:
What are you about, Master Philip? you must not touch them ere fruit!
How dare you, fellow! cried the young gentleman, in a tone of equal astonishment and, wrath.
None of your airs, Master Philip! What I means is, that some great folks are coming too look at the place tomorrow; and I wont have my show of fruit spoiled by being pawed about by the like of you; so, thats plain, Master Philip!
The boy grew very pale, but remained silent. The gardener, delighted to retaliate the insolence he had received, continued: