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:
You need not go for to look so spiteful, master; you are not the great man you thought you were; you are nobody now, and so you will find ere long. So, march out, if you please: I wants to lock up the glass.
As he spoke, he took the lad roughly by the arm; but Philip, the most irascible of mortals, was strong for his years, and fearless as a young lion. He caught up a watering-pot, which the gardener had deposited while he expostulated with his late tyrant and struck the man across the face with it so violently and so suddenly, that he fell back over the beds, and the glass crackled and shivered under him. Philip did not wait for the foe to recover his equilibrium; but, taking up his grapes, and possessing himself quietly of the disputed nectarine, quitted the spot; and the gardener did not think it prudent to pursue him. To boys, under ordinary circumstancesboys who have buffeted their way through a scolding nursery, a wrangling family, or a public schoolthere would have been nothing in this squabble to dwell on the memory or vibrate on the nerves, after the first burst of passion: but to Philip Beaufort it was an era in life; it was the first insult he had ever received; it was his initiation into that changed, rough, and terrible career, to which the spoiled darling of vanity and love was henceforth condemned. His pride and his self-esteem had incurred a fearful shock. He entered the house, and a sickness came over him; his limbs trembled; he sat down in the hall, and, placing the fruit beside him, covered his face with his hands and wept. Those were not the tears of a boy, drawn from a shallow source; they were the burning, agonising, reluctant tears, that men shed, wrung from the heart as if it were its blood. He had never been sent to school, lest he should meet with mortification. He had had various tutors, trained to show, rather than to exact, respect; one succeeding another, at his own whim and caprice. His natural quickness, and a very strong, hard, inquisitive turn of mind, had enabled him, however, to pick up more knowledge, though of a desultory and miscellaneous nature, than boys of his age generally possess; and his roving, independent, out-of-door existence had served to ripen his understanding. He had certainly, in spite of every precaution, arrived at some, though not very distinct, notion of his peculiar position; but none of its inconveniences had visited him till that day. He began now to turn his eyes to the future; and vague and dark forebodingsa consciousness of the shelter, the protector, the station, he had lost in his fathers deathcrept coldly, over him. While thus musing, a ring was heard at the bell; he lifted his head; it was the postman with a letter. Philip hastily rose, and, averting his face, on which the tears were not dried, took the letter; and then, snatching up his little basket of fruit, repaired to his mothers room.
The shutters were half closed on the bright dayoh, what a mockery is there in the smile of the happy sun when it shines on the wretched! Mrs. Morton sat, or rather crouched, in a distant corner; her streaming eyes fixed on vacancy; listless, drooping; a very image of desolate woe; and Sidney was weaving flower-chains at her feet.
Mamma!mother! whispered Philip, as he threw his arms round her neck; look up! look up!my heart breaks to see you. Do taste this fruit: you will die too, if you go on thus; and what will become of usof Sidney?
Mrs. Morton did look up vaguely into his face, and strove to smile.
See, too, I have brought you a letter; perhaps good news; shall I break the seal?
Mrs. Morton shook her head gently, and took the letteralas! how different from that one which Sidney had placed in her hands not two short weeks sinceit was Mr. Robert Beauforts handwriting. She shuddered, and laid it down. And then there suddenly, and for the first time, flashed across her the sense of her strange positionthe dread of the future. What were her sons to be henceforth?
What herself? Whatever the sanctity of her marriage, the law might fail her. At the disposition of Mr. Robert Beaufort the fate of three lives might depend. She gasped for breath; again took up the letter; and hurried over the contents: they ran thus:
DEAR MADAM,Knowing that you must naturally be anxious as to the future prospects of your children and yourself, left by my poor brother destitute of all provision, I take the earliest opportunity which it seems to me that propriety and decorum allow, to apprise you of my intentions. I need not say that, properly speaking, you can have no kind of claim upon the relations of my late brother; nor will I hurt your feelings by those moral reflections which at this season of sorrow cannot, I hope, fail involuntarily to force themselves upon you. Without more than this mere allusion to your peculiar connection with my brother, I may, however, be permitted to add that that connection tended very materially to separate him from the legitimate branches of his family; and in consulting with them as to a provision for you and your children, I find that, besides scruples that are to be respected, some natural degree of soreness exists upon their minds. Out of regard, however, to my poor brother (though I saw very little of him of late years), I am willing to waive those feelings which, as a father and a husband, you may conceive that I share with the rest of my family. You will probably now decide on living with some of your own relations; and that you may not be entirely a burden to them, I beg to say that I shall allow you a hundred a year; paid, if you prefer it, quarterly. You may also select such articles of linen and plate as you require for your own use. With regard to your sons, I have no objection to place them at a grammar-school, and, at a proper age, to apprentice them to any trade suitable to their future station, in the choice of which your own family can give you the best advice. If they conduct themselves properly, they may always depend on my protection. I do not wish to hurry your movements; but it will probably be painful to you to remain longer than you can help in a place crowded with unpleasant recollections; and as the cottage is to be soldindeed, my brother-in-law, Lord Lilburne, thinks it would suit himyou will be liable to the interruption of strangers to see it; and your prolonged residence at Fernside, you must be sensible, is rather an obstacle to the sale. I beg to inclose you a draft for L100. to pay any present expenses; and to request, when you are settled, to know where the first quarter shall be paid.
I shall write to Mr. Jackson (who, I think, is the bailiff) to detail my instructions as to selling the crops, &c., and discharging the servants; so that you may have no further trouble.
I am, Madam,
Your obedient Servant,ROBERT BEAUFORT.Berkeley Square, September 12th, 18.
The letter fell from Catherines hands. Her grief was changed to indignation and scorn.
The insolent! she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. This to me!to methe wife, the lawful wife of his brother! the wedded mother of his brothers children!
Say that again, mother! againagain! cried Philip, in a loud voice. His wifewedded!
I swear it, said Catherine, solemnly. I kept the secret for your fathers sake. Now for yours, the truth must be proclaimed.
Thank God! thank God! murmured Philip, in a quivering voice, throwing his arms round his brother, We have no brand on our names, Sidney.
At those accents, so full of suppressed joy and pride, the mother felt at once all that her son had suspected and concealed. She felt that beneath his haughty and wayward character there had lurked delicate and generous forbearance for her; that from his equivocal position his very faults might have arisen; and a pang of remorse for her long sacrifice of the children to the father shot through her heart. It was followed by a fear, an appalling fear, more painful than the remorse. The proofs that were to clear herself and them! The words of her husband, that last awful morning, rang in her ear. The minister dead; the witness absent; the register lost! But the copy of that register!the copy! might not that suffice? She groaned, and closed her eyes as if to shut out the future: then starting up, she hurried from the room, and went straight to Beauforts study. As she laid her hand on the latch of the door, she trembled and drew back. But care for the living was stronger at that moment than even anguish for the dead: she entered the apartment; she passed with a firm step to the bureau. It was locked; Robert Beauforts seal upon the lock:on every cupboard, every box, every drawer, the same seal that spoke of rights more valued than her own. But Catherine was not daunted: she turned and saw Philip by her side; she pointed to the bureau in silence; the boy understood the appeal. He left the room, and returned in a few moments with a chisel. The lock was broken: tremblingly and eagerly Catherine ransacked the contents; opened paper after paper, letter after letter, in vain: no certificate, no will, no memorial. Could the brother have abstracted the fatal proof? A word sufficed to explain to Philip what she sought for; and his search was more minute than hers. Every possible receptacle for papers in that room, in the whole house, was explored, and still the search was fruitless.
Three hours afterwards they were in the same room in which Philip had brought Robert Beauforts letter to his mother. Catherine was seated, tearless, but deadly pale with heart-sickness and dismay.
Mother, said Philip, may I now read the letter? Yes, boy; and decide for us all. She paused, and examined his face as he read. He felt her eye was upon him, and restrained his emotions as he proceeded. When he had done, he lifted his dark gaze upon Catherines watchful countenance.
Mother, whether or not we obtain our rights, you will still refuse this mans charity? I am younga boy; but I am strong and active. I will work for you day and night. I have it in meI feel it; anything rather than eating his bread.
Philip! Philip! you are indeed my son; your fathers son! And have you no reproach for your mother, who so weakly, so criminally, concealed your birthright, till, alas! discovery may be too late? Oh! reproach me, reproach me! it will be kindness. No! do not kiss me! I cannot bear it. Boy! boy! if as my heart tells me, we fail in proof, do you understand what, in the worlds eye, I am; what you are?
I do! said Philip, firmly; and he fell on his knees at her feet. Whatever others call you, you are a mother, and I your son. You are, in the judgment of Heaven, my fathers Wife, and I his Heir.
Catherine bowed her head, and with a gush of tears fell into his arms. Sidney crept up to her, and forced his lips to her cold cheek. Mamma! what vexes you? Mamma, mamma!
Oh, Sidney! Sidney! How like his father! Look at him, Philip! Shall we do right to refuse him even this pittance? Must he be a beggar too?
Never beggar, said Philip, with a pride that showed what hard lessons he had yet to learn. The lawful sons of a Beaufort were not born to beg their bread!
CHAPTER VI
The storm above, and frozen world below.
The olive bough
Faded and cast upon the common wind,
And earth a doveless ark.
Mr. Robert Beaufort was generally considered by the world a very worthy man. He had never committed any excessnever gambled nor incurred debtnor fallen into the warm errors most common with his sex. He was a good husbanda careful fatheran agreeable neighbourrather charitable than otherwise, to the poor. He was honest and methodical in his dealings, and had been known to behave handsomely in different relations of life. Mr. Robert Beaufort, indeed, always meant to do what was rightin the eyes of the world! He had no other rule of action but that which the world supplied; his religion was decorumhis sense of honour was regard to opinion. His heart was a dial to which the world was the sun: when the great eye of the public fell on it, it answered every purpose that a heart could answer; but when that eye was invisible, the dial was mutea piece of brass and nothing more.
It is just to Robert Beaufort to assure the reader that he wholly disbelieved his brothers story of a private marriage. He considered that tale, when heard for the first time, as the mere invention (and a shallow one) of a man wishing to make the imprudent step he was about to take as respectable as he could. The careless tone of his brother when speaking upon the subjecthis confession that of such a marriage there were no distinct proofs, except a copy of a register (which copy Robert had not found)made his incredulity natural. He therefore deemed himself under no obligation of delicacy or respect, to a woman through whose means he had very nearly lost a noble successiona woman who had not even borne his brothers namea woman whom nobody knew. Had Mrs. Morton been Mrs. Beaufort, and the natural sons legitimate children, Robert Beaufort, supposing their situation of relative power and dependence to have been the same, would have behaved with careful and scrupulous generosity. The world would have said, Nothing can be handsomer than Mr. Robert Beauforts conduct! Nay, if Mrs. Morton had been some divorced wife of birth and connections, he would have made very different dispositions in her favour: he would not have allowed the connections to call him shabby. But here he felt that, all circumstances considered, the world, if it spoke at all (which it would scarce think it worth while to do), would be on his side. An artful womanlow-born, and, of course, low-bredwho wanted to inveigle her rich and careless paramour into marriage; what could be expected from the man she had sought to injurethe rightful heir? Was it not very good in him to do anything for her, and, if he provided for the children suitably to the original station of the mother, did he not go to the very utmost of reasonable expectation? He certainly thought in his conscience, such as it was, that he had acted wellnot extravagantly, not foolishly; but well. He was sure the world would say so if it knew all: he was not bound to do anything. He was not, therefore, prepared for Catherines short, haughty, but temperate reply to his letter: a reply which conveyed a decided refusal of his offersasserted positively her own marriage, and the claims of her childrenintimated legal proceedingsand was signed in the name of Catherine Beaufort. Mr. Beaufort put the letter in his bureau, labelled, Impertinent answer from Mrs. Morton, Sept. 14, and was quite contented to forget the existence of the writer, until his lawyer, Mr. Blackwell, informed him that a suit had been instituted by Catherine.
Mr. Robert turned pale, but Blackwell composed him.
Pooh, sir! you have nothing to fear. It is but an attempt to extort money: the attorney is a low practitioner, accustomed to get up bad cases: they can make nothing of it.