Night and Morning, Complete

CHAPTER IV.

   “For a man is helpless and vain, of a condition so exposed to
   calamity that a raisin is able to kill him; any trooper out of the
   Egyptian army—a fly can do it, when it goes on God’s errand.”
    —JEREMY TAYLOR On the Deceitfulness of the Heart.

The two brothers sat at their wine after dinner. Robert sipped claret, the sturdy Philip quaffed his more generous port. Catherine and the boys might be seen at a little distance, and by the light of a soft August moon, among the shrubs and bosquets of the lawn.

Philip Beaufort was about five-and-forty, tall, robust, nay, of great strength of frame and limb; with a countenance extremely winning, not only from the comeliness of its features, but its frankness, manliness, and good nature. His was the bronzed, rich complexion, the inclination towards embonpoint, the athletic girth of chest, which denote redundant health, and mirthful temper, and sanguine blood. Robert, who had lived the life of cities, was a year younger than his brother; nearly as tall, but pale, meagre, stooping, and with a careworn, anxious, hungry look, which made the smile that hung upon his lips seem hollow and artificial. His dress, though plain, was neat and studied; his manner, bland and plausible; his voice, sweet and low: there was that about him which, if it did not win liking, tended to excite respect—a certain decorum, a nameless propriety of appearance and bearing, that approached a little to formality: his every movement, slow and measured, was that of one who paced in the circle that fences round the habits and usages of the world.

“Yes,” said Philip, “I had always decided to take this step, whenever my poor uncle’s death should allow me to do so. You have seen Catherine, but you do not know half her good qualities: she would grace any station; and, besides, she nursed me so carefully last year, when I broke my collar-bone in that cursed steeple-chase. Egad, I am getting too heavy and growing too old for such schoolboy pranks.”

“I have no doubt of Mrs. Morton’s excellence, and I honour your motives; still, when you talk of her gracing any station, you must not forget, my dear brother, that she will be no more received as Mrs. Beaufort than she is now as Mrs. Morton.”

“But I tell you, Robert, that I am really married to her already; that she would never have left her home but on that condition; that we were married the very day we met after her flight.”

Robert’s thin lips broke into a slight sneer of incredulity. “My dear brother, you do right to say this—any man in your situation would say the same. But I know that my uncle took every pains to ascertain if the report of a private marriage were true.”

“And you helped him in the search. Eh, Bob?”

Bob slightly blushed. Philip went on.

“Ha, ha! to be sure you did; you knew that such a discovery would have done for me in the old gentleman’s good opinion. But I blinded you both, ha, ha! The fact is, that we were married with the greatest privacy; that even now, I own, it would be difficult for Catherine herself to establish the fact, unless I wished it. I am ashamed to think that I have never even told her where I keep the main proof of the marriage. I induced one witness to leave the country, the other must be long since dead: my poor friend, too, who officiated, is no more. Even the register, Bob, the register itself, has been destroyed: and yet, notwithstanding, I will prove the ceremony and clear up poor Catherine’s fame; for I have the attested copy of the register safe and sound. Catherine not married! why, look at her, man!”

Mr. Robert Beaufort glanced at the window for a moment, but his countenance was still that of one unconvinced. “Well, brother,” said he, dipping his fingers in the water-glass, “it is not for me to contradict you. It is a very curious tale—parson dead—witnesses missing. But still, as I said before, if you are resolved on a public marriage, you are wise to insist that there has been a previous private one. Yet, believe me, Philip,” continued Robert, with solemn earnestness, “the world—”

“Damn the world! What do I care for the world! We don’t want to go to routs and balls, and give dinners to fine people. I shall live much the same as I have always done; only, I shall now keep the hounds—they are very indifferently kept at present—and have a yacht; and engage the best masters for the boys. Phil wants to go to Eton, but I know what Eton is: poor fellow! his feelings might be hurt there, if others are as sceptical as yourself. I suppose my old friends will not be less civil now I have L20,000. a year. And as for the society of women, between you and me, I don’t care a rush for any woman but Catherine: poor Katty!”

“Well, you are the best judge of your own affairs: you don’t misinterpret my motives?”

“My dear Bob, no. I am quite sensible how kind it is in you—a man of your starch habits and strict views, coming here to pay a mark of respect to Kate (Mr. Robert turned uneasily in his chair)—even before you knew of the private marriage, and I’m sure I don’t blame you for never having done it before. You did quite right to try your chance with my uncle.”

Mr. Robert turned in his chair again, still more uneasily, and cleared his voice as if to speak. But Philip tossed off his wine, and proceeded, without heeding his brother,—

“And though the poor old man does not seem to have liked you the better for consulting his scruples, yet we must make up for the partiality of his will. Let me see—what with your wife’s fortune, you muster L2000. a year?”

“Only L1500., Philip, and Arthur’s education is growing expensive. Next year he goes to college. He is certainly very clever, and I have great hopes—”

“That he will do Honour to us all—so have I. He is a noble young fellow: and I think my Philip may find a great deal to learn from him,—Phil is a sad idle dog; but with a devil of a spirit, and sharp as a needle. I wish you could see him ride. Well, to return to Arthur. Don’t trouble yourself about his education—that shall be my care. He shall go to Christ Church—a gentleman-commoner, of course—and when he is of age we’ll get him into parliament. Now for yourself, Bob. I shall sell the town-house in Berkeley Square, and whatever it brings you shall have. Besides that, I’ll add L1500. a year to your L1000.—so that’s said and done. Pshaw! brothers should be brothers.—Let’s come out and play with the boys!”

The two Beauforts stepped through the open casement into the lawn.

“You look pale, Bob—all you London fellows do. As for me, I feel as strong as a horse: much better than when I was one of your gay dogs straying loose about the town. ‘Gad, I have never had a moment’s ill health, except from a fall now and then. I feel as if I should live for ever, and that’s the reason why I could never make a will.”

“Have you never, then, made your will?”

“Never as yet. Faith, till now, I had little enough to leave. But now that all this great Beaufort property is at my own disposal, I must think of Kate’s jointure. By Jove! now I speak of it, I will ride to——to-morrow, and consult the lawyer there both about the will and the marriage. You will stay for the wedding?”

“Why, I must go into ———shire to-morrow evening, to place Arthur with his tutor. But I’ll return for the wedding, if you particularly wish it: only Mrs. Beaufort is a woman of very strict—”

“I—do particularly wish it,” interrupted Philip, gravely; “for I desire, for Catherine’s sake, that you, my sole surviving relation, may not seem to withhold your countenance from an act of justice to her. And as for your wife, I fancy L1500. a year would reconcile her to my marrying out of the Penitentiary.”

Mr. Robert bowed his head, coughed huskily, and said, “I appreciate your generous affection, Philip.”

The next morning, while the elder parties were still over the breakfast-table, the younger people were in the grounds; it was a lovely day, one of the last of the luxuriant August—and Arthur, as he looked round, thought he had never seen a more beautiful place. It was, indeed, just the spot to captivate a youthful and susceptible fancy. The village of Fernside, though in one of the counties adjoining Middlesex, and as near to London as the owner’s passionate pursuits of the field would permit, was yet as rural and sequestered as if a hundred miles distant from the smoke of the huge city. Though the dwelling was called a cottage, Philip had enlarged the original modest building into a villa of some pretensions. On either side a graceful and well-proportioned portico stretched verandahs, covered with roses and clematis; to the right extended a range of costly conservatories, terminating in vistas of trellis-work which formed those elegant alleys called roseries, and served to screen the more useful gardens from view. The lawn, smooth and even, was studded with American plants and shrubs in flower, and bounded on one side by a small lake, on the opposite bank of which limes and cedars threw their shadows over the clear waves. On the other side a light fence separated the grounds from a large paddock, in which three or four hunters grazed in indolent enjoyment. It was one of those cottages which bespeak the ease and luxury not often found in more ostentatious mansions—an abode which, at sixteen, the visitor contemplates with vague notions of poetry and love—which, at forty, he might think dull and d—-d expensive—which, at sixty, he would pronounce to be damp in winter, and full of earwigs in the summer. Master Philip was leaning on his gun; Master Sidney was chasing a peacock butterfly; Arthur was silently gazing on the shining lake and the still foliage that drooped over its surface. In the countenance of this young man there was something that excited a certain interest. He was less handsome than Philip, but the expression of his face was more prepossessing. There was something of pride in the forehead; but of good nature, not unmixed with irresolution and weakness, in the curves of the mouth. He was more delicate of frame than Philip; and the colour of his complexion was not that of a robust constitution. His movements were graceful and self-possessed, and he had his father’s sweetness of voice. “This is really beautiful!—I envy you, cousin Philip.”

“Has not your father got a country-house?”

“No: we live either in London or at some hot, crowded watering-place.”

“Yes; this is very nice during the shooting and hunting season. But my old nurse says we shall have a much finer place now. I liked this very well till I saw Lord Belville’s place. But it is very unpleasant not to have the finest house in the county: aut Caesar aut nullus—that’s my motto. Ah! do you see that swallow? I’ll bet you a guinea I hit it.” “No, poor thing! don’t hurt it.” But ere the remonstrance was uttered, the bird lay quivering on the ground. “It is just September, and one must keep one’s hand in,” said Philip, as he reloaded his gun.

To Arthur this action seemed a wanton cruelty; it was rather the wanton recklessness which belongs to a wild boy accustomed to gratify the impulse of the moment—the recklessness which is not cruelty in the boy, but which prosperity may pamper into cruelty in the man. And scarce had he reloaded his gun before the neigh of a young colt came from the neighbouring paddock, and Philip bounded to the fence. “He calls me, poor fellow; you shall see him feed from my hand. Run in for a piece of bread—a large piece, Sidney.” The boy and the animal seemed to understand each other. “I see you don’t like horses,” he said to Arthur. “As for me, I love dogs, horses—every dumb creature.”

“Except swallows.” said Arthur, with a half smile, and a little surprised at the inconsistency of the boast.

“Oh! that is short,—all fair: it is not to hurt the swallow—it is to obtain skill,” said Philip, colouring; and then, as if not quite easy with his own definition, he turned away abruptly.

“This is dull work—suppose we fish. By Jove!” (he had caught his father’s expletive) “that blockhead has put the tent on the wrong side of the lake, after all. Holla, you, sir!” and the unhappy gardener looked up from his flower-beds; “what ails you? I have a great mind to tell my father of you—you grow stupider every day. I told you to put the tent under the lime-trees.”

“We could not manage it, sir; the boughs were in the way.”

“And why did you not cut the boughs, blockhead?”

“I did not dare do so, sir, without master’s orders,” said the man doggedly.

“My orders are sufficient, I should think; so none of your impertinence,” cried Philip, with a raised colour; and lifting his hand, in which he held his ramrod, he shook it menacingly over the gardener’s head,—“I’ve a great mind to——”

“What’s the matter, Philip?” cried the good-humoured voice of his father. “Fie!”

“This fellow does not mind what I say, sir.”

“I did not like to cut the boughs of the lime-trees without your orders, sir,” said the gardener.

“No, it would be a pity to cut them. You should consult me there, Master Philip;” and the father shook him by the collar with a good-natured, and affectionate, but rough sort of caress.

“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 don’t 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 before—it 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 Caleb’s 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 register—so, 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 don’t 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, let’s 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 he’ll never have my weight to carry. Well, saddle Brown Bess for Mr. Philip. What horse shall I take? Ah! here’s my old friend, Puppet!”

“I don’t know what’s come to Puppet, sir; he’s 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 we’ll 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 somehow—he don’t 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 o’clock; 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 boy’s hand. “Tush! whenever you want money, don’t trouble your father—write to me—we shall be always glad to see you; and you must teach Philip to like his book a little better—eh, 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, don’t be shy—I can have as many as I like for the asking: you’re 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 hunter—a 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 yonder—the old six-bar—eh, Phil?”

“Capital!—to be sure!—”

The gate was opened—the 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 barb”—seemingly 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 Beaufort—in 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 life—amazingly 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 don’t know how I’m 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 forward—made at the gate—struck his hoofs against the top bar—fell forward, and threw his rider head foremost on the road beyond. The horse rose instantly—not 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 boy’s breast. The bystanders had witnessed the fall—they crowded to the spot—they took the fallen man from the weak arms of the son—the 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! don’t 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 miles—every one knows Mr. Powis’s 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 hour—no 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 will—he never made a will.”