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,
