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;
