Night and Morning, Complete. Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон
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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,